


The Other Side of the Mirror

by darkcyan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Last Updated in 2004, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Post-Fourth Year Fic, Severitus | Severus Snape is Harry Potter's Parent, Yes there are multiple Harry Potters in this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2019-12-26 22:38:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 139,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18291653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkcyan/pseuds/darkcyan
Summary: On his fifteenth birthday, Harry Potter begins to dream of someone disturbingly familiar. As the weeks pass, the dreams continue. What will happen when he returns to Hogwarts? And are these changes he's experiencing just puberty ... or something more?





	1. Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on ff.net between 2002 and 2004. I'm including my original author's notes below (and in subsequent chapters) both because they're as much a historical artifact as the stories themselves, and because they personally amuse me. :D 
> 
> Content of the chapter has been lightly edited to restore some of the punctuation that ff.net's various changes over the years had stripped away, correct a few typos, and remove review responses. 
> 
> (Note: this story currently has 21 chapters total. I will be posting them progressively as I finish fixing them up, and remove this note once the rest are posted.)
> 
> ==
> 
> Hello all. This is something of an experiment to me, being the first pure Harry Potter 'fic I've written. I finally caved into the demands of my muse to write-of all overused things-a fifth year 'fic. I hope I've made it interestingly different enough. 
> 
> I would also like to note, just in case anyone cares, that this is more or less a response to Severitus' Challenge. However, that is not the only main focus of this story. But . . . with such a fascinating idea, how could I resist? 
> 
> Severitus' Challenge, obviously, belongs to Severitus. I'm just glad it's a challenge, so I can steal with impunity. *grin* Harry Potter and Co. belong to J.K. Rowling. And if I ever get around to adding any original characters in, they'll belong to me. But nothing else does. Unfortunately.

_“He's going to find out eventually, you know.”_

_“I know, oniisan. I know.” A shuddering sigh, as the shorter of the two figures buried his (her?) head against the other's shoulder. “I can't believe he hasn't figured it out already. He was there, you know.”_

_“Ssh, Harry. It will be alright.”_

_“But . . .” Tear-streaked face was raised. “. . . why? I always thought you would hate me . . . when you found out . . . and I couldn't bear the thought!”_

_A laugh drawn unwittingly from the taller of the two as he ruffled the other's short hair. “Harry, Harry. I may have hated, once, the ideal that Harry Potter represented . . . but I've known you as my imouto for much longer than I've known you as Harry Potter. Besides, haven't I helped you each year-where I could-in trying to stop You-Know-Who?”_

_She sighed. “I don't know what I would have done without you and Hermione. I never could have made it without you.”_

_“Without you, I probably would have gone on and become another Death Eater, just like Father.” The taller grimaced with disgust. “I will protect you from him, Harry. I promise.”_

* * *

Green eyes flashed open with a suddenness that would have startled onlookers, if there had been any. _I promise_. Those last two words seemed to hang in the air for another long moment before dissipating completely.

A dream. The inhabitant of the bed fumbled, sliding glasses on before turning to look at the clock. Just as he turned, the number flashed in change. 12:00 had become 12:01. Wry smile. “Happy birthday to me.” He whispered, then leaned back, eyes searching out even in the dark familiar bumps and cracks in the ceiling. He grasped for details of the dream.

There had been . . . two people. One had been . . . blonde? Maybe? . . . the son of a Death Eater. He shuddered, thinking of those minions of Voldemort. The other had been . . . he frowned. Himself? He vaguely remembered that person being referred to as Harry Potter. But surely that couldn't be right . . . the Death Eaters and sons thereof that he knew of, he certainly weren't friends with.

What had they called each other? Oniisan and imouto? Not English, obviously . . . he doubted they were words from any language he had heard of. Still, he wondered what they meant-they might provide a clue as to the meaning of the dream . . . or at least the identity of the taller individual.

With a sigh, he rolled over. He'd owl Hermione tomorrow . . . erm, later today? . . . and ask. Surely she'd know. For now, he'd just enjoy the sensation of being a year older.

Fifteen. He was fifteen now. Perhaps it was the dream, but for once he truly did feel like he was a different person at fifteen than he had been, even just the previous day. Holding to that thought, hoping that for once in his life the change-whatever it was-was a good one, he slipped fitfully back into sleep.

* * *

_Kill the spare._

The sun was only beginning to peek over the horizon when he woke back up, scar still tingling in sympathy to the remembered agony of that night. It was the dream he had had at least once every night since the end of the previous school year. He knew he ought to tell someone about it, that it was foolish to hold it all in . . . but he couldn't.

The others, even Ron and Hermione . . . even Dumbledore . . . they wouldn't understand. Understand how it felt to be forced to stand by while Cedric . . . poor, brave, honorable . . . _dead_ . . . Cedric . . .

In a way, he was glad the nightmares recurred so frequently. They would ensure that he never, _ever_ forgot. If anyone else knew, they'd probably try to force him to take some potion that made him sleep deeply, without dreams. They wouldn't understand why he wanted to keep them . . . because they were all that was left of Cedric. And no matter what he told himself, how hard he tried to convince himself . . . he couldn't help but believe that Cedric's death was all his fault.

Somehow, he had the feeling . . . that the Harry Potter in his dream would understand.

* * *

For about the twelfth time that day, Harry rubbed his arm. He didn't understand . . . no matter how hard he watched, he kept on bumping into things-things he could have sworn he had watched out for. At the top of the stairs, he tripped suddenly, bouncing and rolling to the bottom, where he silently said words of thanks that the Dursleys were out somewhere. If Dudley . . . heck, if _any_ of them had seen that, he wouldn't have heard the end of it for _months_.

Dudley would probably even learn to use the owl post for the joy of making fun of him even after he got back to Hogwarts. Absently, he noted that that was the eighteenth time he had tripped. He rolled his eyes upwards. _Becoming suddenly accident prone for my birthday. Just what I've always wanted as a present. Thanks._

For a moment, he wondered if this was some sort of nefarious plan of Voldemort's. But . . . if Voldemort was able to get close enough to him in this, his 'home', to cast a curse that made him accident prone, he'd have been more than close enough to just kill Harry and be done with it. Harry had no doubt that Voldemort would have no problems conscience-wise with killing him in his sleep.

He wondered if he could come up with some good proximity alarm charms for when he got back to Hogwarts. He couldn't use any of them now even if he found them, for obvious reasons-no underage magic. He _could_ , however, start researching.

_Research_. Harry snorted. He was beginning to sound like Hermione. He could almost imagine her now . . .

_Proximity charms? Oh dear, we haven't gone into them much yet, have we? Have you looked to see if there were any in_ The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 4) _? How about_ Grade 5 _? Surely you've read it over already . . . hm. You know, I believe I read something about proximity charms used to guard Hogwarts in_ Hogwarts, A History _. That might also be a good place to check . . ._

And on, and on . . . Perhaps he wasn't turning into Hermione quite yet after all.

He worried at his lip, wondering if he ought to owl the brown-haired girl about his recent streak of . . . 'accidents'. But no . . . it was probably just a phase that all children went through or something. Nothing to worry about, and certainly nothing to worry Hermione about.

He drifted into the kitchen, made and wolfed down a peanut butter sandwich, then (out of some misplaced filial feeling, he supposed) quartered a grapefruit, ate the smallest quarter, and wrapped the rest and placed it in the refrigerator. Carefully, watching the placement of his feet with an _extremely_ paranoid eye, he climbed back up the stairs and returned to his room.

Back in his sanctuary of sorts, his eyes brightened as they fell on Hedwig and the message the snowy owl held in her mouth. Perhaps Hermione had already found out what those strange words meant. He unrolled the parchment, a feeling of eagerness that seemed quite overdone stirring in his stomach.

* * *

 

_Harry-_

_How are you doing? The Dursleys treating you okay? Remember, you can always give me a call if you have some sort of problem._

_Where on Earth did you hear those words? It took me ages to figure out even what language they were from! I did, of course-they're in Japanese. 'Oniisan' means 'elder brother' and 'imouto' means 'younger sister'. Now spill! You know that once my curiosity is wakened, there's nothing that will stop me from figuring out what is going on eventually._

_Do you have a Japanese pen pal?_

_C'mon, you've gotta tell me now!_

_-A rather frustrated Hermione_

_P.S. On your birthday no less! Happy fifteenth, by the way. See you at Ron's (I hope) and you_ better _let me know what's going on before then._

_P.P.S. Or I'll tell the entire school you're secretly in love with . . . um . . . Snape! And that your fondest wish is to have a threesome with him and Colin Creevey._

* * *

Harry grinned. That sounded just like Hermione-except for the threat. That was considerably more evil than she tended to be. Perhaps he and Ron were rubbing off on her at last. After a moment's thought, he scribbled out a brief reply, thanking her but only saying that he had 'heard the words somewhere'.

For some reason, he felt unwilling to divulge the dream-at least until he had figured out what exactly was going on with it, why it was coming to him, and who that mysterious second figure was. And why the son of a Death Eater, good friend or not, was calling dream-himself 'little _sister_ '.

As he was about to give the note to Hedwig, he pulled back, suddenly thinking of some addition he wanted to add. He scribbled out an additional question as to how one would say 'elder sister' and 'younger brother' in Japanese. As a postscript, he pointed out that if Hermione was to do as she threatened, he'd tell the school that _her_ fondest desire was to engage in a threesome with Malfoy and Professor McGonagall.

Satisfied that he had gotten his point across, this time he didn't pause before handing the note to Hedwig and instructing her on where to go. Still feeling somewhat restless, he dug out his copy of _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 4)_ and, on a whim, _Hogwarts, a History_ as well (Who knew? It might be useful) and flopped down on his bed (banging his right elbow for the ninth time and his left knee for only the third), ready to engage in a hunt for proximity charms.

He might as well be doing _something_ useful with his time, after all.

* * *

Time passed. Slowly, Harry adjusted to being accident prone-or at least, he began watching his surroundings a great deal more closely, always wary for the next object he was to knock over or the next invisible crack he would trip on. Luckily, he managed to pull off his most embarrassing accidents-tripping down the stairs twice more and tripping at one point or another on the way _up_ four separate times-when the Dursleys were out or otherwise occupied.

At one point or another, he bruised nearly every place there _was_ to bruise-of that he was sure. He had been keeping track. Still, except for one spectacular black eye (running into a doorway. For that one, at least, he had a halfway decent excuse-he had been three-quarters asleep), the Dursleys seemed not to notice.

Even in the case of the black eye, Uncle Vernon had wanted to know all the details about the 'fight' he was so sure Harry had been in mostly because he wanted to know if he would have to pay the other father restitution of any kind.

Hedwig had returned with news that 'elder sister' was 'oneesan' and 'younger brother' was 'otouto'-close, in both cases, but not close enough-and a postscript that detailed the likelihood of a relationship between _Harry_ , Malfoy, and Professor McGonagall.

With his reply of thanks, Harry retaliated with the suggestion that she take Snape off his hands and add Ginny Weasley to the mix. The Lovelife War was on, and neither side was willing to relent.

All joking aside, Harry found that he truly did enjoy this battle of complete silliness-although he had never quite expected it would be _Hermione_ he would be exchanging such barbs with. About midway through, they agreed that Hermione's jab of Mr. Filch had been uncalled for, but that the return snipe of Mrs. Norris was equally reprehensible if not moreso. Afterwards, both made a point to avoid Fang, Fluffy, and other beings of that nature . . . although Harry suggested one of the centaurs at one point.

Harry kept a chart of all the relationships that had been mentioned-both by himself and by Hermione-to make sure that he didn't repeat himself. He suspected-this _was_ Hermione, after all-that his friend was doing the same thing.

And, of course, the dreams continued, dreams of himself-yet-not that segued into the eternal dream of Cedric, Wormtail, and Voldemort. Often, he did not even wake between dreams anymore, yet he could still remember both quite clearly.

The dreams of himself-yet-not did not come every night, but two to three times a week; very rarely two nights in a row. Still, he was slowly gathering information on the other Harry Potter-and found himself wondering if the other Harry had similar dreams of him. The thought made him feel . . . self-conscious . . . but then, if she knew he was dreaming of her, she'd probably feel self-conscious too.

She? Yes, that was one of the first things he had discovered. In this other place where these dreams originated from, the Boy-Who-Lived had been born a _girl_.

* * *

Two weeks left to summer. He was going to the Weasleys' house for the rest of the break, as would Hermione. Although their little war continued, Harry persisted in not mentioning the dreams as the source of the words he had asked her about. He was almost, in fact, to the point where he was considering seeing if he could get a Japanese pen pal-if only so that he _could_ use that as a semi-legitimate excuse.

He wondered if other-Harry was Japanese, or raised that way? But then, in that case her 'brother' would almost certainly be full Japanese-and he was pretty sure that blonde Japanese people were something of a rarity in real life. Even if Tokyo especially seemed chock full of them (and people with fire engine red, blue, green, purple and more as shades of hair . . . naturally) in anime-one of Dudley's newest obsessions.

Somehow, though-and for more reasons than just the hair objection-the thought of that Harry Potter living and growing up in Japan seemed . . . off. She too, he was almost certain, attended Hogwarts. He couldn't pinpoint what exactly had driven him to this conclusion, but it was a conclusion he was sure of.

Downstairs, the doorbell rang. He sighed. Not for him-he wasn't sure the wizarding world understood even the concept of a doorbell. Even if whoever came for him, did come in through the front door, they certainly wouldn't ring the doorbell. He looked around anyway, though, just in case. Except for his wand and Hedwig's cage-one in his pocket and one sitting on the desk-everything else was already packed away in his trunk, which he had already taken downstairs and stored back in the cupboard for the time being.

Uncle Vernon roared. “It's for you!”

At that, Harry's eyes widened and he dashed out of the room. Pausing at the top of the stairs, he looked over. “Hermione! What are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you again too.” The girl replied with a grin. “Now come on. My parents are driving me to the Weasleys', and we're picking you up on the way. I assume you _are_ ready to go?”

Harry grinned. “Completely.” He ducked back into his room, grabbed Hedwig's cage, and came down the stairs-one hand gripping the railing tightly just in case. He did _not_ want to trip down the stairs while holding Hedwig. At the base of the stairs, Hermione came forward to grab Hedwig while he dug into the cupboard and dragged his trunk out.

The two fifteen-year-olds made it out to the car with everything still intact. Harry made a point of showing wide-eyed astonishment at the fact that Hermione had not . . . increased the car's trunk size slightly, which comment earned him a playful bop on the head and an idle remark about himself, Justin Finch-Fletchly, and Millicent Bulstrode. As a rule, they tended to stick to threesomes, the more far-fetched the better.

Harry turned and waved jauntily at the Dursleys. “Bye! See you next summer!” _Hopefully not. But, knowing my luck . . ._

“So? How has your summer been so far?” Hermione asked as they both got themselves adjusted, fastening seatbelts, in the back seat. A narrow look made it clear that his recitation had better include where he learned those Japanese words. Or else.

He shrugged. “Actually, the most tolerable since before I can remember. They seem to have decided that they're willing to ignore me as long as I don't do anything too he wiggled his fingers mockingly 'freakish', and stay out of their way. Considering the restrictions on underage magic, the first was unlikely to happen and I was just as happy to adhere to the second. The less I have to see of those people, the better.”

“And . . .” Her stare was growing flintier. He made a point of ignoring it.

“So I stayed in my room a lot. Got pretty much all of my homework done for once. Was it just me, or was the Potions assignment easier than usual? Charms too.” Actually, he had been quite surprised. It was not like Snape to go easy on anyone-except perhaps his precious Slytherins. Certainly it was completely out of character for him to give an assignment that was anything less than completely, brain-meltingly hard to the despised Gryffindors.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Charms was _obviously_ easier because of all the practice with hexes and counters you got last year. You should know by now that different forms of magic exercise different areas of the brain, and the more an area of the brain is exercised, the easier it is to access again. Or at least, that's how magic works.”

She leveled a reprimanding stare in his direction that reminded him of Professor McGonagall before continuing. “But please, Harry. I know you're trying to distract me, but try to come up with a statement a bit more believable than your first next time. Potions was just as hard as it has always been, and you know that very well.”

Harry, about to protest, shut his mouth. Something strange was going on, something besides his dreams of other-Harry, if he found almost laughably easy something that Hermione- _the_ brain herself, the smartest girl in their year and perhaps even the entire school-had some trouble with. He'd keep quiet until he figured out what was _really_ going on. Aware that he had let the silence grow almost too long, he forced a mock-sheepish expression onto his face. “Well, I had to try!”

“Harry . . .” Hermione sighed plaintively.

The black-haired boy caved in. “I heard the words in a dream.”

“Not . . .” Her eyes widened.

He made a point of shaking his head quite vigorously. “No! As far as I can tell, Voldemort has absolutely nothing to do with that dream. My scar didn't hurt or anything. I was in the dream, talking to . . . someone . . . I can't remember who. Those words just came up in the conversation.”

He shrugged and began to lie through his teeth, hoping Hermione couldn't tell. “It only happened once and I really don't remember much at all. I just happened to have written you that letter when the incongruity of those words was fresh on my mind. Otherwise, I'm sure I would have forgotten it completely.” He felt a bit guilty about lying to Hermione, but he really didn't feel like sharing the dreams with anyone. They were _his_.

He could tell Hermione was still somewhat doubtful, but she thankfully decided to take him at his word and accept his explanation. They both left it at that, and the conversation moved on to other things. He _would_ tell Hermione everything. Just . . . not yet. Not yet.

* * *

As his time at the Burrow lengthened, Harry was silently glad that he had had two weeks to adjust to his new 'problem', enough time to where he didn't trip too much or otherwise make a fool of himself. If any of the others noticed how much more aware of his surroundings he was-he carefully attempted to avoid using the word 'paranoid' even to himself-no one said anything.

As he basked in the warmth of his friendship with Hermione and Ron, he also found reason to be glad that he no longer woke up at night screaming because of the dream of Voldemort's resurrection. That would worry them, his screaming would. Then, the inevitable explanation, the inevitable attempts to persuade him that it hadn't been his fault.

What he knew no one would believe is that he _knew_ it wasn't his fault. If anyone's, it was Voldemort's fault, as so many other things had been. Unfortunately, he had a harder time convincing himself to _believe_ that there was truly nothing he could have done. In the end, nothing anyone said would convince him to believe that it hadn't been his fault; only he could do that. And he couldn't, yet.

So he continued on, pretending everything was alright and just the same as it had always been. Constantly fighting a losing battle against his newfound clumsiness, against the bittersweet anguish brought on by his nightly dreams of that night, always searching for new clues as to the meaning of the other dreams of girl-Harry.

Everyone, it seemed, was changing this summer. Ron had shot up and was now taller than both Fred and George, to his delight and the twins' disgust. Hermione, following the trend she began the previous year, had grown a bit taller as well and was beginning to fill out. There was no longer any doubt whatsoever that their childhood friend was a _girl_. Ginny, too, was beginning to look more mature.

They were all, Harry admitted reluctantly, growing up. He too was taller, though not as tall as Ron by any stretch of the imagination. Although he had been of the opinion that he ate enough-he certainly didn't get all that hungry-this process of growing seemed to have stretched him to the point where he looked, well, _gaunt_ in the mirror, and Mrs. Weasley tried to find a delicate way to ask him if the Dursley's had been starving him.

They hadn't. It's true that, in the past, there had been times when he had been locked up in his cupboard for a day or two without any food as punishment, but that hadn't happened recently. He could have called following the diet starving him, except the fact that he _hadn't_ followed the diet all that closely. Especially not since the Dursleys seemed to be off doing one thing or another a lot more often this summer, giving him plenty of opportunities to sneak a little something from the refrigerator or pantry.

Of course, watching Ron around Hermione was always fun, and vice versa. Especially if the topic had anything to do with the time this summer that Hermione had spent in Bulgaria as a guest of the Krums. He supposed it was hormones. Whatever it was, he felt oddly aloof from it, observing from the outside. He knew that both Hermione and Ginny were girls and that they were, in their own ways, quite beautiful girls. But he felt no need to _do_ anything about that beauty other than appreciate it.

He supposed that meant he was _different_ in yet another way from the rest of humanity. By this time, he almost expected it. It didn't seem quite right, after all, that he be allowed to be normal in any way. He was the Boy-Who-Lived. He couldn't _possibly_ be just a normal boy too.

Oh well. Watching Ron make a fool of himself was enjoyable enough, and he supposed he didn't really mind not feeling compelled to make a fool of himself too. On the other hand . . . it was another change in himself that made him feel almost like he no longer knew who he was, much less knowing anything about anyone or anything else.

Perhaps to compensate for this, he threw himself into his books. If the world was changing around him, if he himself was changing, he needed _something_ solid to hold onto. Looking through the books from the previous year, he found that there were still things he didn't understand, an understanding he had neglected because at the time he had seen no reason. Some of these topics, he realized he had not understood because he was missing background information that he had not properly understood in the years before.

He found connections between disciplines that fascinated him. By the time they went to Diagon Alley to get their books and supplies for the coming year, he was looking forward to seeing what their new books were like. For perhaps the first time in his life, he found he truly _wanted to learn_. This wasn't his early fascination with the concept of magic. This was . . . he had no words to describe it. Knowledge, his lifeline in a mutable world, had also become his friend.

Ron and Hermione noticed, of course, his newfound interest in things academic. Hermione was congratulatory, warning him with laughter in her voice of the consequences if he displaced her as top student in the year. Ron just got a mournful look on his face and said it was horribly unfair, since he no longer had anyone to slack off with. After a moment's thought adding in a mock-fierce tone that this fascination with schoolwork had better not take too much of his attention away from Quidditch. But for the most part, they were too wrapped up in each other and in pretending that they were not wrapped up in each other to really pay him much attention.

Harry figured that whoever had decided that the OWLs were to be taken this year, when-if indications turned out to be true-even _Hermione_ would be distracted, had definitely had a very warped sense of humour. Either that, or they understood young people so little that it wasn't even funny.

And still the dreams. The other Harry suffered from them too, the ones about Cedric, and she felt the same as he did about them. She, unlike Harry, was willing to talk with her brother (?) about them, and the conversations they held helped Harry, too.

_“I know this sounds strange coming from me_ ,” he had said, “ _but when we get back to Hogwarts, I want you to be kind to Cho Chang. Go out of your way just let her know that you care. Cedric's death hit her hard.”_

_He ruffled the other Harry's short hair. “It doesn't do to wallow in your guilt and your grief. Everyone dies eventually. Your job is to try to prevent what deaths you can. But people will die. We've grown up with stories of what things were like back when Father attended Hogwarts; Voldemort is even less likely to be merciful this time around.”_

_A sigh. “People will continue to die, and if you let every death weigh you down, you will be locked so tightly to your indecision that you will hesitate too long at just the wrong moment, and more people will die. Grieve, but don't let your grief destroy you.”_

Harry hadn't. He threw himself into his books, reveling in his new joy at learning. He played Quidditch with the Weasleys and even Hermione occasionally, throwing himself into the pure feelings of joy that flying always brought welling up into his heart. He watched as Ron and Hermione nervously maneuvered, each interested, each unwilling to admit it, trapped in their own little world of each other.

He _lived_ , and liked to think that, in a way, he was living vicariously for Cedric's sake too. For the sake of Cedric, his parents, everyone whose life had been cut tragically short by the scourge that was Voldemort.

* * *

It had taken an intensive search, but he had finally found it. Gathering his courage, he opened the sliding door and stepped inside, shutting it again quietly behind him.

The sole occupant of this particular compartment looked up. “Oh. It's you.” Her dark eyes were curiously blank, as if she was making an effort to suppress every hint of emotion. “You know, don't you, that I'm still not interested?” The tone of voice was deliberately harsh.

Harry blinked. He had almost forgotten. Looking at his fellow Seeker now, the only emotion he felt towards her was sympathy. “Yes . . . er, I mean, no I didn't know, but that's not what I came here to say.”

“Then say it and leave, Potter. I hope you will excuse me if I say that your face is not one I'm terribly fond of, just now.” Her voice was completely monotone as she bowed her head, focusing her attention on her hands, folded in her lap.

That hurt, but not as badly as he had expected it to. “I just wanted you to know . . .” he licked his suddenly dry lips. “. . . that if it had been my choice to make, Cedric would have been here with you right now.” He paused. “Or maybe not, since he would have graduated . . .” he shook his head. “I'm getting off topic. I-if I hadn't told him to take the Cup with me; if I had greedily accepted his offer to allow me to take the Cup, even though he got there first; if I had only been _fast enough_ . . .”

He wiped his hands angrily across suddenly wet eyes. “I don't expect you to forgive me-how can I, when I haven't even managed to forgive myself. But . . . for what it's worth . . . I am sorry.”

He was looking down now, so he didn't note Cho's sudden glance, the everpresent anguish now curiously muted by speculation and pity. She had been so wrapped up in Cedric's death that she hadn't noticed-or, to be truthful, cared-how he, the only one who had been there when he died, had taken it.

“How . . .” Now it was her turn to lick strangely dry lips. But . . . she _had_ to know. She swallowed. “How did it happen?”

Harry's head shot up, green eyes wide with astonishment.

“Please tell me.” She would not beg.

He shook his head briefly, then slowly nodded, his eyes now never leaving Cho's. Groping slightly, he took a seat on the opposite side of the compartment. “If you're sure . . .” He evidently saw something in her eyes, a silent determination. “. . . okay.”

“We emerged into the clearing with the Cup at nearly the same time. There was a monster chasing Cedric, but he and I managed to dispatch it. He was closer to the Cup, and one of my legs had been injured.”

“Then, out of some obscure Hufflepuff sense of honor and loyalty, he decided that I deserved the Cup more than him. We argued for a while-each trying to convince the other that they deserved the Cup more-until I suggested that we both take the Cup.”

He swallowed. And now, the part he remembered so clearly, the part that was in his dreams every night. “So we took hold at the same time. There was . . . well, you already know it was a Portkey, right? . . . so it took us somewhere. We were trying to figure out what to do-we kind of thought it might be part of the Tournament still.”

He closed his eyes. “And then . . . _his_ voice. Voldemort's.” Cho flinched. At the name, yes, but also at the way Harry's voice had gone flat. “ _Kill the spare_. That's what he said. Kill the spare. I wasn't fast enough . . . there was a flash of green light . . . his body hit the ground, and his eyes were open, blankly staring into nothing, and he looked so _surprised_.” The words had been coming faster and faster and now his voice cracked as he saw again the face that haunted his dreams each night.

Cho watched as Harry slowly crumpled, curling up on the seat. The train lurched and almost instinctively she jumped up to catch him. She continued to hold him as he began to cry, long, hard, heartbreaking sobs. And through the sobs came words. “And then I knew . . . that he was dead . . . that he'd never come back . . . just like my parents.”

His grip on her arms strengthened to the point where it verged on becoming painful, and he raised his red-rimmed eyes to look into hers. “Just like my parents.” He continued, his voice frighteningly intense. “I couldn't save my parents, and I couldn't save Cedric. I'm supposed to be so special, so _why can't I do anything to stop it?!_ ”

“Harry . . .” she began, still cradling him, cursing for the first time her analytical Ravenclaw mind that really had no idea what to do in situations such as this. “. . . you're only human.” And, she realized, it was true. They all put him up on a pedestal and expected him to do miracles. He was their talisman of hope. But somewhere along the lines, they had also forgotten that he was also nothing more than human.

Even she had fallen into the insidious trap. That was the main reason, she realized, why she had been so angry at him for Cedric's death. He had managed, time after time, to pull off miracles. And this one time, when the outcome mattered so much to her, he _had_ managed the miracle of getting himself out alive _but_ not the one in which he brought Cedric back, alive, with him.

And she had never forgiven him for that.

“You can't do everything by yourself. Everyone seems to have forgotten that, but it doesn't make it any less true. _I_ am sorry, Harry, for resenting the fact that you couldn't do something that even . . . that probably even Dumbledore couldn't do.”

A quiet snort. “Dumbledore can do anything.” He slowly disentangled himself from her comforting embrace. “Thank you. I didn't know . . . but I needed that.”

Cho hesitated, biting her lip for a moment. “Look. I'm still not interested. But . . . if you ever need a shoulder to cry on . . .” But surely, if he needed that, he could go to his friends in Gryffindor. She knew he had some. Or his family. Surely they would help him.

Harry grinned. It was a pale shadow of his usual brilliant smile, but it was a start. “I'll tell you a secret-I'm not either.” He shrugged. “Don't know how to explain it . . . but . . .” Another shrug. “I'm not.”

For a moment, Cho was at a loss. She supposed she had expected nothing to have changed. Yet, with the simple admission, she felt a great weight fall away. “Let's just be friends, then, shall we?”

The grin was stronger now. “I think that's a wonderful idea.”

* * *

They sat together on the same seat now, leaning slightly against each other. “And then he looked me straight in the eye and said gravely 'I wasn't spying on your team. That would be dishonorable. I was spying on _you_.'” She chuckled. “I wish, now, that I could have seen my face when he said that.”

“I idolized him, you know.” Harry confided. “He was so . . . so tall, and so much older than me, and Seeker and Captain of the Quidditch team, and brave and honorable and . . . well, he was everything that I wanted to be.” He made a face. :And then, suddenly, he turned into the nastiest being on Earth when I found out that he and you were together.” Snort. “Jealousy. Hormones. Pfeh.”

“What about the girl you took to the Yule Ball? She was one of the Gryffindors from your year, right?”

“Oh, Parvati. Yeah. I feel rather guilty about the way I acted towards her now. I only took her because I had to take someone, and then I proceeded to ignore her completely in favor of sulking over you and Cedric.” He laughed. “Juvenile, huh?”

“I wouldn't say, that.” Cho said dryly. “Cedric never realized that I had been watching him far longer than he had been watching me. Since second year, at least. And every time I saw him with another girl, I practically ate my heart out. I was horrible to _everyone_ I came into contact with because I had to lash out at _something_. Jealousy is like a disease. Nearly everyone is susceptible to it and there's no cure. You just have to wait it out.”

“And either you get what you want eventually,” Harry interrupted with a smile, “or you grow up and grow out of it.”

“More or less.” Cho agreed. A comfortable silence fell. “So . . . how was your summer?”

“Enjoyable for the most part.” He acceded. “It took me a while before I was able to sleep through the night without waking up in the middle, screaming.” He leveled a glare at her. “And if you tell _anyone_ I said that, I will flatly deny it and get back at you in the most humiliating way possible. I don't want anyone or anything messing with my dreams. Period.”

“What do you see?” She asked quietly. “Is it . . .?”

“Yes. There are some variations, but most of the time I'm standing over the Cup, seeing my own excitement reflected back in his eyes. Then we touch the Cup and I can hear Voldemort saying ' _Kill the spare'_ and then Cedric is falling, dead before he can hit the ground, and I can hear myself screaming even though I didn't in real life and then I wake up.”

“Every night?” Cho looked horrified. “Harry . . .”

“No. Someone _has_ to remember, Cho. I won't let him be forgotten. And . . . the dreams are all I have left of him. I know it's silly, but I feel like . . . as long as I can remember, as long as the dreams are still there, he'll continue to live on in some fashion.”

“He'll live on anyway in our memories of him. I-” she shifted uncomfortably “-I feel slightly hypocritical saying this, but I don't think he would have wanted you to dwell on his death forever. You're going to need to move on eventually.” Her arm folded around his shoulders and squeezed encouragingly. “But until you come to terms with those dreams yourself, I won't try to press you into taking Dreamless Sleep Potion or anything like that.”

Harry sighed. “You don't know what that means to me. My other friends . . . they would have kept bothering me, trying to force me into it 'for your own good'. They wouldn't have understood . . . but somehow, I get the feeling that you do.”

“My mother died when I was five.” She said quietly, an apparent non sequitur. “It was so _stupid_. She had taken me out shopping with her at a nearby supermarket-my mom was a half-blood, and she grew up as a Muggle-and someone held up the store we were in. She pushed me away, telling me to run . . . and tried to stand up to our captors.” Cho choked, and it was Harry's turn to put his arms around the older girl as silent tears ran down her face.

Finally, she began again, her voice still wavering slightly. “They shot her. One through the head, the other through the heart. She probably died almost instantly. Then she fell, and blood splattered everywhere, all over me, and I just stared at her face and pled for her to wake up and then I started screaming and everything . . . shattered.”

“It was my first display of magic. All the glass in the store-including the windows-broke into millions of tiny pieces. Instantly. The guns in their hands melted. It was the shattering glass that brought the police to investigate; they captured the robbers, but they could do nothing to bring my mother back.”

“For weeks afterwards my father was so distant. I know now that he was just coping with the grief in his own way, but at the time I was convinced that he believed it was my fault, so I came to believe that too. And every time I went to sleep, all I could see was the blood.”

“They started giving me Dreamless Sleep Potion. It allowed me to get a full night's sleep without dreams, but at the cost of shoving everything down deeper. Those nights when for some reason I didn't get the potion were ten times worse because of everything that had been suppressed. It took years before I stopped dreaming in shades of red.”

“So I know what it feels like. And I know that trying to suppress it will only make it harder once you let go-and you will have to someday.”

“To a certain extent, I already have.” He answered, surprised to feel that the burden had, indeed, lifted the slightest bit. “I think . . . it's because of you. I . . . well, I knew you cared for Cedric, but it was abstract knowledge. You've reminded me that I'm not the only one who grieves his loss, and I'm not the only one who will remember him. And . . .”

“No one, you know, actually asked me how Cedric died. Well, Dumbledore, of course, but it was more incidental than anything else. The information he was truly interested in was that which had to do with Voldemort's rebirth. Cedric was just . . . I don't know. An unfortunate side-effect?”

“I have no doubt that he cared.” Harry went on hastily. “But . . .”

“But it wasn't the same.”

He tilted his head upwards slightly. “You know, that advice you gave me applies just as much to you. You're going to have to move on, too.” With a small smile, he quoted other-Harry's brother. “'Grieve, but don't let your grief destroy you.'”

“Before today, if someone had said that to me, I would have told them to sod off.” Cho admitted. I was, to be frank, wallowing in my grief still. “But . . . it helped immensely, not just to hear the truth of how he died, but also just to have someone to talk with Cedric about.” She gestured around at the otherwise empty compartment. “Everyone is walking on eggshells around me, and no one will _talk_ to me. She snorted. It's as if they believe I'll go postal if the subject of Cedric even comes up.” She paused as if suddenly remembering something. “That means . . .”

“I know what it means.” Harry said. “I grew up around Muggles too. I wonder if the wizarding world has an equivalent?”

“Go owl?” Cho suggested, her lips twitching. Their eyes met, and they started laughing.

Harry shook his head. “That's an unregistered Animagus.” They laughed even harder.

“Can you imagine Snape as an owl?” Cho asked through her giggles. “He does have that whole 'silent stalker' image going for him, after all.”

Harry Looked at her. “What are you, crazy? Snape would be a bat. Duh.” Which remark, of course, set them off with a fresh set of howls.

“Oh . . .” Cho groaned. “Snape does come off as rather vampiric, doesn't he?” That was a question that needed no answer. The five minute warning rang through the train, and both stared at each other in considerable surprise.

“I suppose I'd better go.” Harry said awkwardly. “See you?”

“Yes,” Cho agreed quietly. Then, with curiosity, “What about your friends? Won't they have been worried?”

Harry laughed. “I rather doubt they noticed my disappearance.” At her incredulous look, he smirked. “As I said before. Hormones. Pfeh.”

* * *

It turned out he had done Ron and Hermione a disservice. They had indeed noticed his absence-around the time Draco Malfoy had decided to pay him a call.

“Where were you, Harry?” Hermione asked. “We were worried about you.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “There was something I needed to get done. Sorry I didn't let you know, but you seemed rather wrapped up in each other when I left. I didn't want to disturb you.”

As Harry anticipated, this statement-although complete truth-also served as a distraction. “Both his friends exploded in a storm of protests of the absolute untruth of his words.”

Subject closed.

* * *

As they rolled up to the castle, Harry spared a thought of mild regret that he wasn't with Cho. He felt distanced from his friends-through no fault of their own-and was missing the closeness he had shared with Cho during the train ride there.

He leaned his forehead against the glass and gazed up into the blue sky. It was a very nice shade of blue, with only a few wispy clouds, small enough to where they added to the atmosphere of calm and peace instead of detracting. The sky soothed him, conspiring along with the memory of his conversation with Cho to put him in a better mood than he'd been in in quite a while.

He'd had good moods every once in a while over the summer, especially recently, surrounded by his friends and aided by his newfound love of learning. This wasn't merely a good mood, however. This was a _good_ mood.

As they entered the Great Hall, his eyes swept the faculty table. There were old faces and faces missing-notably Hagrid and Professor 'Moody'. Professor Lupin was back, though, he noted with glee. Perhaps he would be teaching them Defense Against Dark Arts again this year.

Snape looked snarky and greasy and mean as always, although he seemed even more cadaverous than ever. But then, if he had returned to spying against Voldemort, he had a reason for looking so awful. And two new faces. A man and a woman, both looking like they were in their mid- to late thirties.

One, he assumed, would be replacing Hagrid as Care of Magical Creatures Professor. He wondered what the other would be doing. Well, he'd find out eventually. Soon. After all, one of the first things Professor Dumbledore always did was introduce the new teachers-of which there had been at least one every year since Harry had come to school, because of the 'jinx' on the DADA position.

He smirked. _There_ was a way to get rid of Snape for good. Just let him take the DADA job, as it was rumoured he had always wanted. Then again, knowing Snape, he'd probably break the jinx before the jinx had a chance to break him. No matter how little he liked the Potions professor, he had to admit that the man had no shortage of courage and determination.

Idly, he scanned the rest of the hall, his mind still for the most part on the intriguing little problem of 'The DADA Jinx' vs. Severus Snape. He almost wished it would happen, simply so he could sit back and watch. As his eyes passed over the Ravenclaw table, Cho looked up and smiled. He smiled vaguely back, catching her eyes for the briefest of moments, and moved on.

Then his eyes reached the Slytherin table and his heart stopped.

In the back of his head, a tiny voice murmured, _blond hair . . . son of a Death Eater . . . tell me, just exactly how many blond sons of Death Eaters do you know? Idiot._

Despite the acidic commentary, though, he could do nothing but stare at the single person his age who had done his best to get Harry Potter expelled, suspended, perhaps even killed (he didn't know if he would go _that_ far . . . though he wouldn't be terribly surprised), and generally make his life a living hell.

Mind blank, he had only one thought as he stared at Draco Malfoy.

_Oniisan?_


	2. The Child Who Lived

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review answers are not, in fact, at the bottom anymore. :D I figured there are limits. 
> 
> ==
> 
> Well. I'm informing you now, the only reason this chapter is up so fast is because I already had it written. I can pretty much guarantee that two chapters will never again come out in such quick succession. Especially considering that the chapters to this story are unusually long in comparison to what I usually write.
> 
> That done with, I'll reiterate what was said last chapter-nothing belongs to me except the plot. And, considering that this partly in answer to Severitus' Challenge, even the plot doesn't belong wholly to me.
> 
> Review answers at the bottom. Now read, please. *innocent smile*

The rest of dinner passed by in something of a blur to Harry. He paid enough attention to identify the new woman as Arabella Figg, their new Care For Magical Creatures professor, and the man as Mundugus Fletcher, their new professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts. No mention was made of Professor Lupin or what he was doing back; Harry decided he'd just have to corner the werewolf later.

He was eating, mechanically, when a sudden drop in the amount of noise in the Great Hall directed his attention back outwards. He looked up to find the attention of most of the hall on him. In dead silence. Making use of a gesture he had finally learned over this summer, he raised an eyebrow. Elegantly, he hoped.

“I said,” Malfoy, of course, looking rather miffed at having been ignored, “that with all the 'help' you've been against You-Know-Who, we might as well just roll over and surrender already. Getting people killed . . . allowing him to rise like that . . . surely _the Great Harry Potter_ could have done something.”

Harry's temper flared. “Shut up Malfoy.”

The blond fifth-year continued on as if he hadn't heard. “And getting rid of Diggory, of all things. Sure, he was a Hufflepuff, which tends to cast doubt upon his worth,” an entire fourth of the hall, attention distracted, turned murderous glares toward the lone standing Slytherin, “but he might have been some help to the cause of the Light.”

Harry stood, putting his hand on Ron's shoulder to keep the redhead down, and glided over toward the Slytherin table, only barely containing his anger. “It's a pleasure to learn Lucius Malfoy's take on the situation.” He said, loudly enough to make sure everyone heard. “Now, what do _you_ think? Or _can_ you think without running to your father first for that too?”

Some scattered laughter, mostly from fellow fifth-years who had heard and grown sick of Malfoy's oft-used prelude, 'My father says . . .'

He ran his gaze from Malfoy's barely visible, no doubt ruinously expensive, black shoes to the silvery-grey eyes that were beginning to lose their vaunted ice. _No. This is not my oniisan. He may be in the other world, but he is still the same as always here._ “If you think you can be a better Harry Potter than me, you have my leave to go ahead. I'm sure Voldemort” nearly the entire hall flinched “would be happy to meet you.”

Malfoy took a nearly unnoticeable step backwards, suddenly not so sure that this was a good idea. Harry shook his head. No. How very disappointing his oniisan had turned out to be. “Take my advice for once, Malfoy. Grow. Up.” He turned on his heel.

Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he turned back. Holding Malfoy's eyes for a long moment, he suddenly smiled sweetly. “Oh. And this is for insulting Cedric.” Still smiling, he brought his hand back, formed it into a fist, and punched Malfoy as hard as he could.

He knew he shouldn't. But oh, it felt so good.

* * *

He sat, leaning against the wall next to the portrait of the Fat Lady. Despite the fact that she knew him on sight, she had refused to let him in. 'Rules are rules, you know'. He was just hoping that one of the prefects came up here so that he could get the password and go on inside.

He flexed the fingers on his right hand. Malfoy's nose had been harder than he expected. Not that he'd really expected anything. He hadn't been planning on punching Malfoy. It had just . . . happened.

“Good evening, Harry.” A voice from the relative twilight just a bit further down the hall. A familiar, welcome voice, tinged with a certain amount of amusement. “Dumbledore hasn't dismissed supper yet, you know. He's wise enough to know that no one would move even if they did. They're too busy discussing your confrontation with Draco Malfoy.”

A note of worry entered the older man's voice. “Look, Harry, you know that I'll be here for you if you want to talk . . . about last year . . . or anything.”

“About Cedric's death, you mean? And Voldemort's revival?” Unlike many, Lupin did not flinch. “Yes, Professor Lupin, I know. I appreciate it. I know you may not believe me, but I truly don't need to talk just now. Not about that.” He raised his eyes to meet those of his former professor. “I noticed you didn't get the DADA position back. So what are you doing here?”

Lupin's mouth formed an expression that Harry was not sure whether it was supposed to be a grin or a grimace. “Some bright person decided that, seeing as I knew and had worked with Dumbledore already, I would be the best ambassador to Hogwarts from the faction of 'Dark creatures' that is willing to support him against Voldemort.”

“'Dark creatures'?” Harry questioned. “Werewolves, of course . . .”

“Vampires, naga-those are _very_ rare, almost extinct, nearly immortal were-snakes-other various werecreatures . . .” Lupin made a very definite face. “Go on. You can start questioning their mental competence any time now.”

“I think you'll do a good job.” Harry said. “Sure, I never really thought of you as in any way Dark. But you will make a very good diplomat.”

“Are you saying I'm a good liar?” He asked, a hint of mock-danger in his voice.

“Well, you'd have to have been, to be Moony and to have hidden your secret all these years. But no, actually all I meant was that you struck me as a peacemaker, something that will help you when you have to work out compromises.”

He pursed his lips. “Also, there is the fact that you seem rather harmless. It will make other humans more inclined to trust you. This will make your job negotiating easier, and will also ensure that you will most likely get a better deal for the 'Dark creatures' than if they had chosen someone who looked like, say, Snape.” At the comparison, Lupin snorted-a snort that sounded like it was concealing a chuckle.

“I'm not sure how 'Dark creature'” he inserted a bit of sarcasm into the phrase “society works, so I'm not sure if that will work for you on the other side of the equation as well. But there's probably an equivalent advantage.”

“Harry . . .” Professor Lupin's tone held respect. “If you ever get tired of being the Saviour of the Wizarding World, you could probably make a killer politician. Where did this come from?”

“I've been thinking a lot more this summer.” Harry replied with a shrug. “And reading more, too. It just seemed obvious to me.”

“You look . . . well, different.” Lupin peered at him. “Your family . . . they weren't starving you, were they?”

Harry ground his teeth. “Why is everyone asking me that? No! The Dursleys hate me, they would love nothing more than to see me vanish off the edge of the Earth, but they don't starve me. Feed me less than their pig of a son, yes. Starve me, no. And that's not even counting all the scrounging I was given plenty of chances to do.”

“Everyone is asking you that because you _look_ starved, or at least malnourished. Your cheekbones are a lot more prominent . . . enough to where it looks almost as if the entire structure of your face has changed.”

Harry shrugged dismissively. “I'm growing up.”

Lupin looked at him uncertainly. “If you think that's all it is . . . still, tell me if anything . . . strange . . . happens, okay? There may be more to this. I don't know what, but I'm willing to help you find out.”

“I'll let you know.” Harry replied quietly. He knew what Lupin meant-it really did feel, at times, as if something deeper was happening than just adolescence. What this ‘something deeper' was, though, he had no clue. So for the most part he shrugged the feeling off.

For something he himself made a point of blowing off so thoroughly, he was not about to allow Lupin to worry himself. And the werewolf inevitably would worry himself if he thought there was any proof at all that something was not quite right. Better to just figure this out-better yet, figure out if there was anything necessary to figure out-by himself.

As it became evident that Harry was not going to say anything else, Lupin nodded. “All right. I should probably be getting back, but remember, I'll be around if you need me.”

“I will. Good night, professor.”

Lupin turned back. “I'm not your professor anymore. If you don't mind terribly, you could call me Remus.”

Harry smiled. “Good night, Remus.”

* * *

_“And yet again, we miss the Sorting Ceremony.” She sighed. “Is this fated or something? Of the five years, I've managed to attend only one Sorting other than my own.”_

_“I wonder what Father has to say that's so important that he told us to remain home tonight?” Draco stared into the fire. “He's been gone all summer. I know that the Dark Lord is back, so he has to do a certain amount of work for Him . . .” both blond young man and black-haired girl shivered “. . . but that couldn't possibly be_ all _he's been doing.”_

_“Give thanks for small favors.” She said quietly. “He was_ there _. He recognized me. And Voldemort recognized me as Harry Potter. It is only a matter of time before the two of them get together and figure out that Harry Potter is Henrietta Malfoy. At that point . . .” She shrugged. “My life expectancy becomes nil.”_

_“Harry . . .”_

The black-haired young man started awake.

Parvati bent over him and giggled. “Harry, Harry. What were you doing out here? Just patiently waiting for a prefect to come along?”

Harry curled a strand of black hair-nearly shoulder-length after only a summer's growth and almost disturbingly flat-around a single finger absentmindedly. “Something like that.” He noticed a glint of silver on the front of her robe. “Parvati, _you're_ a prefect? Congratulations!”

She blushed. “Thanks. Everyone was expecting it to be Hermione, you know. I was stunned.”

Harry frowned consideringly. “Well . . . everyone know that prefects are supposed to help uphold the rules and everything, right? Well, I'm sure Hermione _knows_ every rule and its basis by heart, but the fact is that Ron and I have corrupted her. She's really not all that terribly good at necessarily _following_ the rules. With all the trouble we've gotten into together, I don't think we're exactly good examples for the younger students.”

“Now that you put it that way . . .” Parvati nodded. “Still, me? A _prefect_?” She jerked her head down the empty hallway. “I came on up as soon as people started being released. Dean's still down there dealing with the new first-years.” She turned toward the Fat Lady. “The password is 'cooperation'.”

_Typical Dumbledore_. Harry smiled as he followed Parvati into Gryffindor Tower and attempted to suppress the unease other-Harry's words had created. Surely nothing too terribly bad would happen . . .

Surely.

* * *

Harry sat in a corner of the common room and watched the festivities. There had been a multitude of congratulations on his treatment of Malfoy that evening in the Great Hall, but after everyone had passed along their congratulations, they had for the most part left him alone. He was reminded, with feelings of annoyance, of Cho's comment about how everyone walked on eggshells around her.

At least no one had come along who outright-and verbally-thought that he had intentionally murdered Cedric. Indeed, Dumbledore's end-of-term speech the previous year had had the effect of focusing everyone's attention almost solely on the threat of Voldemort.

The Hufflepuff table had seemed unusually subdued. But in most cases, it was almost as if everyone had forgotten Cedric's death in favor of the circumstances that surrounded it. Everyone except himself and Cho.

There were unusually few new students this year. Gryffindor had only netted four, three girls and a boy, and the numbers had been about the same for the other three Houses. There would probably be more than the usual proportion of Double classes for the first years this year.

“Are you _Harry Potter_?” An awed voice asked, and he turned.

One of the new girls, with long brown hair in twin plaits and wide hazel eyes. “Yes, I am.” He said gravely. “And you are?”

“Me? Oh, I'm Jane. Jane Blakely.” She smiled shyly. “Um . . . is it true that You-Know-Who is back? 'Cause, you know, my parents don't believe it, but I figured if anyone knew, you would.”

“I'm afraid it is true, Jane.” He replied sadly. “I'm sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? It's not your fault.” She said simply. “I'll help you beat him, and then everyone can live happily ever after.” She offered her plan solemnly.

Harry smiled despite himself. _Pure Gryffindor._ “I don't think that would work. The best thing you can do right now is pay attention to your teachers and learn all you can.”

“I will.” She swore. She wrapped her arms around him, suddenly. “Thank you.”

_For what?_ He wondered, but she was already gone, swallowed back into the crowd.

* * *

The four first-years had been packed off to their beds. The sole first-year boy was sharing the second-year boys' dorm so that he didn't have to sleep alone. For the rest of the House, the party was still going strong, although it showed hints of beginning to wind down.

Over on one side of the room, surrounded by spectators, Ron and Hermione were pitching chess savvy against pure raw intelligence in the fifth chess game of the evening. So far they had each won once and declared the other two games a draw. Elsewhere, Fred and George were holding their first official sale of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes products; they were drawing quite a crowd as well.

And Harry? As the minutes passed, he was growing more on edge. His nerves were screaming at him that _something was wrong_ , but he had no idea what. Finally, he gave up. Creeping up to his dorm room-one extra set of stairs this year-he opened his trunk and dug through his stuff to find two items. Invisibility Cloak and wand. He wanted both with him just in case.

Tossing the cloak over himself, he drifted back downstairs, threaded his way through the common room, and walked out into the dark hall. He had no idea, he admitted readily, where he was heading. Only that he was going somewhere, and that getting to wherever he was going was important.

He walked down hallways and turned down others, walked up stairs and down. As he walked, the feeling intensified and his pace quickened. By the time he ran into Mrs Norris, he was literally running. The cat, normally the bane of his nighttime wandering existence, received not even a second thought.

He only vaguely noted when his path took him down into the dungeons; the already cool air dropped another couple of degrees. Then, suddenly, the feeling cut off. Completely. He eyed the door in front of him with a certain amount of trepidation. Yet . . . whatever had drawn him here, had almost certainly meant for him to go in.

He reached out and pushed the door open, expecting anything from Voldemort to nothing at all on the other side of the door. But what he found . . .

A mirror. A very familiar mirror. He walked closer with hesitant steps. Why . . . what would be drawing him so inexorably to the Mirror of Erised? He hadn't even thought of the artifact more than once or twice in the years since he used it to find the Philosopher's Stone. Why would it reappear now?

He drifted closer, taking the Cloak off as he looked into the mirror for the first time in over three years. What did he most desire now? Peace, perhaps. Or Voldemort's demise, that would be nice too. But he saw neither of them. Instead, for a long moment, the mirror reflected nothing. Then, suddenly, the blank silver . . . rippled.

It was dark. Then as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, and the light itself actually grew the slightest bit, his eyes picked out three figures. Two blond and one dark, one of the blonds taller than the other two. Light flared, and he could make out the faces, two he knew well, one he was seeing clearly for the first time.

Like looking into a mirror. Yet, not. He now understood everyones' comments about how he looked different, gaunt, like someone else. That is what he saw, in a face that had slightly softer edges, framed by very short, spiky black hair. And the scar.

Unlike his own, this was not innocent little lightning bolt in the center of his forehead. This scar began above her left eye, delicately drew itself down across her eyelid in a way that in no way impaired the function of that eye, slashed down over the bridge of her nose, and trailed off into oblivion at the center of her right cheek. She looked scared, yet determined.

The tallest of the three, revealed to be Lucius Malfoy, gestured peremptorily at Draco. The younger Malfoy shook his head, firmly. One arm encircled his sister's waist as the two defied their father.

Lucius Malfoy's face hardened, and his lips moved. Although Harry was not and had never been a lipreader, he could guess what was being said. _So be it_. The wand in his hand moved to point squarely at other-Harry. He moved closer to the mirror, hands now resting gently against its surface. He couldn't bear to watch what would happen next, yet neither could he bear to turn his face away.

_“My life expectancy,”_ He remembered her saying, “ _becomes nil.”_

Lip movements, the flash of green light that he had dreaded and expected and feared. It cleared, and in front of other-Harry, Draco Malfoy keeled over without a sound. Harry sank to her knees. Harry sank to his. “NO!” Angrily, he beat his hands against the cool glass of the mirror.

Lucius Malfoy smiled, coldly, at the crying girl he had called daughter for the last fifteen years. “Let me through.” Another person had died because of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Another person. Someone else he couldn't save. Again he pointed the wand, and now other-Harry screamed for an entirely different reason. “I WON'T LET ANYONE ELSE DIE!”

He fell through the mirror.

* * *

She had expected to die. Ever since she discovered she was the one person she had been taught to hate the memory of since before she could remember, she had known that some day, sooner rather than later, she would die. She had no illusions about her father's ability to kill his adoptive daughter.

But . . . he had always doted on Draco. Draco had been his heir, while she had always been just the extra, the unwanted ugly duckling in a family of swans. She had never expected that he would be willing to kill his heir.

And now, once again, her oversight had cost someone's life. Except this time, it wasn't just a friend, an older student whom she knew only slightly. This time, it was her oniisan, the one person who meant more than anything . . . more than _life_ to her.

She supposed she now knew . . . that he felt the same about her.

When the pain began, she almost didn't notice it through the breaking of her heart. Her life was over. What did it matter how she left it?

She was screaming and thrashing. The Cruciatus Curse, one small dispassionate part of her mind noted. She remembered it. She remembered the feeling. She remembered how it had looked when Cedric writhed on the ground. Behind the roaring of her ears and the shrill counterpoint of her screams, she could vaguely almost hear something else. Words. A word. “ _EXPELLIARMUS_!”

And suddenly, the pain stopped.

“Shh.” Arms picked her up. Strong arms. “I've got you now.”

She remembered second year. Oniisan carrying her out of the Chamber of Secrets. They had been smaller then. Still, he had carried her with every evidence of ease. For one who never grew all that tall and kept an eternal air of almost feminity, he had always been strong.

Her vision faded from grey to black, as she rested, content, in the memory of her oniisan's arms.

* * *

The world around him rippled, as he wished with all his might to return home. Return to Hogwarts, before Lucius Malfoy could reawaken and make him sorry, once again, that he still could not kill. He fell out of the mirror, precious burden still clasped tightly in his arms. She had hardly stirred since he picked her up, and even in this light she was unnaturally pale and breathed only irregularly.

The thought of this entire scenario's blatant impossibility never occurred to him. _This_ is what he had been called here for. Out in the hall, he looked around wildly. Of course, when he actually wanted Filch . . . or even Snape! . . . to swoop down upon him angrily and catch him out after curfew, neither was in sight.

Snape! His quarters were down in the dungeons. That would be closer than the infirmary. And if anyone knew how to counteract the effects of the Cruciatus-for it could have hardly been anything else-it was the ex-Death Eater Potions Master.

He dashed down the corridor, holding other-Harry close, vainly searching for a door that would lead to the elusive Potion Master's quarters. Finally he found something. It was nothing much, seeming like only another stretch of wall, but set into _this_ particular stretch of wall was a small plaque. Originally probably copper, it was now dingy and faded; it had probably not been cleaned since Snape became a professor here. And on the plaque, in immaculate cursive, were the words 'Professor Severus Snape'. He had found it.

He began to pound the wall.

* * *

Professor Severus Snape often made a habit of staying up quite late. It was rather in his nature to prefer night to day. If he hadn't had to teach, he might very well have turned wholly nocturnal. He did, however, need only five to six hours of sleep per night. He could get away with less when necessary, of course, but about six hours was a full night's sleep to him.

It was only midnight. All his lesson plans were prepared for the coming year, he had no potions going just now that required his immediate surveillance, and there were no tests or essays to grade yet. All in all, this was one of the only evenings in the year where he was required to do nothing but relax.

So he sat down in his most comfortable armchair-the one that he hid religiously; it did rather mar his image as an austere, greasy bastard, after all-propped his feet up, and prepared to indulge in his most secret vice, the one aspect of his personality that was guaranteed to make him the laughingstock of the entirety of Britain if it every leaked out.

_“I don't know why, but . . . I think I love you. I've loved you since the first time we met.”_

_“You mean, when I accidently dumped soda down your dress, encountered something I shouldn't have when I was trying to help dry you off, and you slapped me?” He took her hand in his; their fingers intertwined. “I never believed in love at first sight . . .” he whispered, “. . . until I met you.”_

Romance novels. He especially liked the historical ones, but he was a sucker for them all, no matter what their setting. Perhaps it was because he knew that love at first sight and true love, for some at least, were not superstition, but a reality.

Even in the wizarding world it was rare, of course. Very few people met each other and _knew_ that they were destined for each other. Destiny rarely interfered, after all, in such mundane things as love. And, as always, there was a price. One who was given such knowledge was never seriously attracted to anyone else. Romantically, their heart belonged to one person only, and so there was no room for anyone else.

Even if she left. Even if she died. No. One. Else.

Ever.

He allowed himself the luxury of a sigh and put the book down. Somehow, the exploits of . . . he glanced at the back cover . . . Amanda and Jacob failed to hold his attention tonight. Another time, perhaps. Tonight . . . tonight seemed to be a night for dredging up all the regrets he though had been long buried.

_It had been a beautiful wedding, he had heard. He hadn't attended. Back then, the wounds had still been too deep. Even now, he kept to the shadows. And watched._

_It was a beautiful christening, as well. All the friends came forward and made the requisite gifts and cooed over the child. He did not move. Instead, from the shadows, he prepared to make his gift. A gift with considerable magic behind it. A gift that would be his own way of safeguarding their happiness together. Of making sure their happiness was safeguarded._

_But first, he had to know. For his own sake. Safely hidden from all eyes, he drifted forward to gaze down on the child. Wide green eyes gazed straight up into his own, and a tiny fist raised, fingers opening and closing in a grasping motion in his direction. Short black hair spiked in all directions, uncontrollable even at this young an age. That was what clinched the matter. Despite the closeness of the timing, there was no doubt as to who the father of this child was. Yet . . . he would still perform the spell. Because it seemed like the right thing to do._

_No matter how much he hated it, he would not interfere in their happiness. He wasn't that vindictive, not yet. He took out his wand and pointed it in the direction of the cradle. “I give my gift. May you always look just exactly like your father, James Potter.”_

_For a brief moment, pale silvery-green sparkles surrounded the cradle. Inside, the child reached upward to grab a few, gurgling happily. His eyes softened, briefly, then he turned on his heel and walked away._

_Several of those people, he would never see again._

Pounding interrupted his musings. A steady beat that was out of place in his quiet sanctuary. Unaccountably irritated, he levered himself out of his chair as he identified the sound as coming from outside his door. Who would be out at this time of night, a little past midnight? More importantly, why would any of them be anywhere near his door?

He stalked over to the door and wrenched it open. For a moment, his brain refused to register what his eyes were trying to tell him. A pale young man, his face stained with tears, with longish black hair-not that much shorter than his own, in fact-and green irises rimmed in a thin line of black stood at his door, holding someone else with short spiky black hair the exact same shade.

“Professor Snape?” The young man asked, his voice threaded through with desperation. “Can you help her, please? She's been struck by the Cruciatus Curse, for probably at least a minute, and then she fainted, and she needs help and you were closest . . .” His eyes begged. “ _Please_ , Professor.”

Snape blinked. Without even really thinking about it, he stepped aside. “Come in.” _How_ did Potter get into these sorts of situations? “Put her down over there.” He gestured toward the couch right in front of the fire. A threadbare, uncomfortable thing, it was there for exactly this purpose, so that he would have a place to collapse when he absolutely couldn't go any further.

He glided over to his own personal stock of potions, choosing with the ease of long habit the potion-his own invention, in fact-that blunted the lingering pain of the Cruciatus. Casting an appraising glance, turning inwardly concerned at the depth of the pallor on the prone girl's face, he also chose a potion that would help her to regain her strength. “What happened? Who caused this?”

“I told you. She was hit by the Cruciatus.” Potter's voice was impatient now. “As to who . . . that's rather complicated.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Voldemort or a Death Eater?”

“Death Eater.”

“And just where were you, Mr. Potter, that brought you into contact with a Death Eater?” He handed the potions to the frantic boy, judging that allowing Potter to apply the potions would be easier than trying to maneuver around him. It was obvious that he wasn't going anywhere.

He had taken the unconscious girl's hand and now held it gently to his cheek. “That starts in on those things that are rather complicated and more or less unbelievable.” He raised his eyes. “There are no Death Eaters on Hogwarts grounds that I know of.” Those black-banded green eyes rested for a long moment on his covered left forearm before returning to his face. “I hope you believe that, if I thought the school was in any way in danger, I would be in Dumbledore's office right now.”

“ _Oniisan_?” A third voice whispered. Alto or perhaps mezzo-soprano, the voice was hoarse from screaming. He was sure she had screamed. Everyone did. But what was this word? Was she foreign?

“I'm sorry.” Potter bowed his head, his voice anguished. Why? “I wasn't fast enough.” Were those tears?

The girl's eyes opened, although from here he could not tell their color. She disentangled her hand from Potter's, only to raise it to cup his cheek. “You. You're Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. How?” And here it came, Snape was sure. The posturing and bragging of the boy celebrity.

“The same as you, I'm sure.” He said cryptically. “A flash of green light.” Both flinched.

Her eyes were closed again. “Why didn't you just let me die?”

“I've been dreaming of you for over a month now.” He sounded outraged. “ _Nearly every night_. Sometimes, I wonder if you weren't all that kept me sane, you and your oniisan. Now . . . now that I've found you, there's no way I'm going to let you go.”

“You don't understand. Now that he's dead, I have no reason to continue living. There's nothing left to live for.” Her voice was defeated, bringing back memories of a period in his own life in which he had felt much the same way. Not because of a specific person, perhaps, but because of everything he had seen and done.

“So you're just going to lie down and die. That's it. You don't care how it would make me feel, to lose you on top of your oniisan-despite the fact that I never knew him, I felt I did, through you-and Cedric, and my parents. And what about Voldemort?” He placed one finger on her nose. “There are many people who believe that only you/I can defeat him. We are a talisman of hope. No matter how annoying it gets, do you really want to deny everyone else the hope our presence brings?”

“And what if we really _are_ the only ones who, in the end, can strike the final killing blow?”

“Would you really miss me so very much?” She asked, incredulous.

Snape gave up on seriously trying to understand this conversation. Dreams and death and oniisan-whatever that was-and Potter practically making the girl out to be another Harry Potter. It was all very confusing.

“More than just about anyone else I know.”

For the first time, something vaguely resembling life returned to the girl. She tried to sit up, leaning shakily on an elbow. “Where are we?”

Potter made a soothing motion. “ _My_ Hogwarts. You have nothing to fear from your father. He can not reach you here.” Her father. Her _father_ had done this to her?! Even the worst of the Death Eaters generally had a sense of familial . . . duty, at least, if not love.

“How? You're only a dream, so how can you be real?”

“I'm not sure. You were nothing more than a dream to me, either. Somehow, though, you have become real, and I for one am not going to complain.” A small smile touched the black-haired boy's face. “I'm so _very_ glad I got to you in time. I couldn't have borne it if I had been too late for you, too.”

“You . . . I'm here, in your place. That means . . . oniisan! He's still alive, isn't he?” Her voice was incredibly intense. Whoever or whatever this oniisan was, it was obvious that he meant a great deal to her.

“He is.” Potter admitted . . . reluctantly? “But . . . he's different. In this life,” were they talking about reincarnation, now, too? Damn, this was confusing “. . . he was an only child as far as I know. He has grown up to be a carbon copy of his father. I don't know, there may still be good in him . . . but if there is, it is buried a great deal deeper. We've hated each other since first year.” He paused. “For example. Just this evening, in the Great Hall, with everyone watching, he insulted Cedric's memory and as much as said that the cause of the Light was a lost cause. He's _different_.”

“My oniisan would never . . .” She sounded lost now. Snape's brow furrowed. Potter could only have been speaking of Draco Malfoy. But what connection did Malfoy have to any of this?

“No. He wouldn't. He may be Draco Malfoy, but he's not your oniisan. Not really. I'm sorry, Harry. So very sorry.”

He couldn't stand it anymore. He had stood there, ignored, listening, because he had figured that he could perhaps find out what Potter was refusing to tell him through the conversation. But all he was getting was more confused.

He stepped forward. “Could someone _please_ tell me what's going on?” And stared. For now he saw clearly, for the first time, the girl's face.

The scar was something of a shock, of course, but he was used to seeing things such as that. It was the rest of the face. In a word, identical. To Potter. Completely. A few shades paler, perhaps, but that could be explained away by the lingering effects of the Cruciatus. And the hair, of course, was different-spiky and short and chaotic all over the place, just the way Potter's had been before he had, for some reason, grown it out.

And the eyes. The exact same shade of green, with the same thin black band around the rim of the eyes. A black band that he could have sworn hadn't been there before the summer . . . but then, he made a habit of looking at Potter's eyes as little as possible. They brought back too many memories.

“Professor Snape!” It was . . . disconcerting, to say the least, to see the equivalent of Potter's face light up upon seeing him. Then her face fell. “Oh, right. You're not the same, either, are you?” She slanted a querying glance Potter's way.

The boy pursed his lips. “Considering the fact that you're _happy_ to see him . . . probably not. He seems to hate me, and ordinarily I make a point of despising him right back. The current theory is that he hates me because he hated my father back when they were in school together and somehow believes I've gotten a swelled head because of my celebrity, which he feels is his duty to puncture.”

It was clear from his face and tone of voice that Potter was getting a feeling of unholy glee out of talking about him like this. “He would love nothing more than to get me expelled. He's sarcastic, cutting, and unfairly favors the Slytherins over the rest of the school.”

“Despite this, he seems to feel it is his duty to save my life, no matter how much he makes a point of enjoying making it hell the rest of the year. Dumbledore trusts him . . . and surprisingly enough, I think I do too.” As he made that unexpected announcement, Potter very carefully did not look in his direction. A good thing, considering the expression that was probably on his face just then.

The girl had seen, though, and she smiled. “I don't know. I doubt either of you hate each other as much as you think you do. Otherwise . . . he doesn't sound too different to me.” She cocked her head. “Are you still teaching Survival?”

He frowned. “I suggested an elective course by that name two years ago. Albus vetoed it-he didn't think anyone would be interested. This course . . . one that combined advanced potions useful in combat and general defense against Dark Arts knowledge to prepare people for combat against the Dark? I actually had a chance to teach it . . .” He frowned, and hazarded a guess, the only guess (as impossible as it seemed) that made any sense, “. . . in your world?”

She nodded. “I've taken it for two full years now-I started third year-and was planning on taking it a third. Although you forgot to mention that you also taught us hand-to-hand and a couple of weapons in case we ever found ourselves in a situation without our wands.” She grinned. “A few of the Slytherins were rather huffy about using Muggle knowledge, but you convinced everyone eventually.”

“I think that should convince you that there's at least _one_ person who's interested.” Potter interrupted. “Truthfully, I'm interested too. Even if _you_ are the one to teach it.” The addition, meant to be a return to their normal hostility toward each other only managed a sort of sarcastic humour.

Snape could not suppress an incredulously raised eyebrow at Potter's unexpected civility. “Sorry, Professor. I'm feeling too calm and at peace with the world to think, much less voice, properly nasty thoughts. Maybe tomorrow.”

“So that's two.” The girl smiled. “Can you ask the Headmaster again? Please? It's one of my favorite classes, and I'd really hate to lose it.”

Despite the fact that the voice that was asking could easily have been the twin of his least favorite student's, he found he couldn't say no. And . . . well, the fact is, he really _had_ wanted to teach that class. Especially now that Voldemort was back and it was no longer just a nameless evil they would be preparing for, in the event of its appearance someday. He nodded.

“I'll go do that now. Potter, you do realize that this would be at least three days a week? Shall I sign you up anyway?” _If, that is, Albus pays me any more attention this time around than last time._

“I was toying with the idea of dropping Divination anyway.” The boy shrugged, then snickered at the identical looks of disgust on the faces of his Potions Professor and his double (from another dimension?). He bit his lip. “If necessary . . . I hate to, but if necessary I'll drop Care of Magical Creatures, too.”

Snape nodded curtly. Suppressing a sigh, he made an offer that he was afraid he'd regret. “Since you're here already . . . and she really shouldn't be moved for another couple hours, ideally . . . I suppose you can stay here for the night if you must. If anything breaks . . .” He loosed his best glare of imminent death, destruction, and permanent maiming, and was satisfied as both flinched.

“Thank you, Professor. I'll try my best.” Potter replied. Heh. When he wasn't being an overbearing brat, the boy could be almost . . . bearable.

Hand on the door panel, Snape suddenly realized there was one last major question that he had never quite managed to resolve the answer to. The rest, he could deduce. “Girl. What _is_ your name, anyway?”

She bit her lip, looking almost as if she was suppressing a smile. “That's right, you don't know, do you? I keep forgetting. Henrietta Lucia Malfoy.”

Potter didn't even bother to try to rein in his grin. “She's Harry Potter. The Child-Who-Lived.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Note: For anyone who doesn't know, Severitus' Challenge is, basically, one that calls for Snape to be Harry's father. There's more, but that's the gist. Lupin has to show up; it's supposed to be more or less Snape/Harry interaction centered. That's all I can remember just now, and since ff.net(?) removed the challenge . . . *growl*
> 
> There were also three or four different conversations that you could choose from to insert into the story at one point or another if you wished; I wasn't planning on using any of them in this story, though. I think that's it.
> 
> Grr. Stupid ff.net(?). Grr.
> 
> I bet Snape didn't count on having both a son and a daughter, though. *evil grin*
> 
> 3 September 2002  
> 28 November 2002
> 
> == 
> 
> The (?)s are because ff.net at some point in its messing with formatting also removed everything that looked vaguely like a link, so all that was left in those spots were empty space. From context, I'm pretty sure that it was ff.net that I was grousing about, though. :D


	3. Gryffindor's Newest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, and here is the next installment of my new obsession.
> 
> Harry Potter and Co. belong to J.K. Rowling; Severitus' Challenge (which this is kinda an answer to) belongs to Severitus; and if there was anything else, it would belong to me. Hm . . . maybe the plot?
> 
> Now, since I know there are probably a lot of people out there who, like me, don't bother to read the answers to the reviews at the bottom of the page, I have constructed a miniature FAQ:
> 
> Q1. What's with Henrietta and Harry and other-Harry and . . . argh! It's so confusing! .  
> A1. Henrietta is Harry Potter from an AU in which she was adopted by the Malfoy family and the rest of the wizarding world believed that their child saviour had died. Until I named her, in order to refrain from giving away her name I called her other-Harry. Just for reference, as of this chapter the 'real' Harry will be called Harry, Harry Potter, or Jamie, while Henrietta will be known as Harry Malfoy, Harry Evans, Lucia, or (as rarely as she can get away with) Henrietta.
> 
> Q2. Slash or no slash?  
> A2. I've got a few (as in, like, three or maybe four) relationships figured out . . . I think. As it goes, one or maybe two are slash, two are not. Thus, there will probably be a bit of both. But until the characters are snogging their hearts out (and perhaps even then), I reserve the right to change my mind as to who gets whom. And no, no one is getting any hints! Currently, nothing much is going on, and it'll probably stay that way for a while. I don't do romance too well.
> 
> Q3. Oniisan? Japanese? Huh?  
> A3. This requires a bit more of a backstory. Henrietta grew up a pureblood, even if only by adoption. As such, she was encouraged to get a 'well-rounded' education, though her father really never paid quite as much attention to her as he did to Draco. For some reason, one of the languages she chose to learn (in addition to French), was Japanese. She was most likely attracted by its complexity and the uniqueness of its writing system.
> 
> So, to the point-she is fluent in spoken Japanese, although she does not know enough kanji to qualify as fluent in written Japanese as well. Oniisan, meaning older brother, is a nickname she attached to Draco when she was at the stage where she thought that nicknaming all sorts of things in Japanese was cool-even if she was the only one in the house that really knew it. And the name stuck, becoming a combination of pet name and inside joke.
> 
> Or, if you want the boring reason . . . I gave Nice!Draco that nickname so that I wouldn't be required to go to great lengths to refrain from giving him a name until I was ready to. To create a bit of suspense, I suppose you could say. :)

“A brief announcement, please.” Breakfast the first day. Most people were there, and those who weren't would certainly receive the news through the school rumour mill. As Dumbledore had noted at the end of Harry's first year, 'it's supposed to be secret, so, of course, the entire school knows'. That went double for things that weren't hidden. “I'd like to take a few moments to introduce a new student.” He gestured and Harry Malfoy stood up.

They had discussed the matter with Snape and, surprisingly enough, he had raised several pertinent points. For one, he had pointed out that neither Lucius nor this particular Draco Malfoy would take too kindly to suddenly gaining a new member to their family-especially not one who was identical to the despised Boy-Who-Lived.

So Henrietta Lucia Malfoy was now Henrietta Lucia Evans. A distant cousin of Harry's who had been living in Japan-chosen because Harry Malfoy was effectively fluent in that language-for the last fourteen or so years. Certainly more believable than claiming that she was Harry Potter from a dimension in which she had been adopted, unknowingly, by the Malfoy family and the rest of the wizarding world had believed she was dead.

_“You forgot a part.”_ She had said when he 'introduced' her to Snape. “ _I'm not just the Child-Who-Lived. I'm the Child-Who-Lived-But-Was-Thought-To-Be-Dead,-Due-To-An-Unfortunate-Incident-Involving-A-Leaky-Bottle-Of-Ketchup.” She said the whole thing in a single breath, then gasped._

_“How did you end up being named 'Harry', more or less, then, if the Malfoys didn't know who you were?”_

_“Oh, that . . .” She grinned. “According to Mother, she had no idea what to call me, although she was inclined toward Lucia. So she brought oniisan in to meet his new sister. He took one look at me, giggled, reached for the fluff on my head-already spiking all over the place-and said 'hairy!' And it stuck.”_

_The two Harrys burst out laughing, and even Snape smiled._

“This is Henrietta Evans. She's joining us this year from Japan as a new Gryffindor. I'd like you all to extend her a warm welcome.”

_“So, I suppose you're in Slytherin?” Harry asked idly. Snape had gone and come back with the good news that Survival would now be an official course this year. He was now at a desk in the corner of the room, sifting through and revising the lesson plans he had drawn up two years previous._

_At this, he looked up slightly, before seeming to return his attention to the papers on his desk. His attention was now divided, though, between the papers and the conversation._

_“What gave you_ that _idea?” She asked, sounding almost angry. “Is it because I'm a Malfoy? Honestly, Jamie . . .”_

_“That's not what I meant, Lucia.” Harry groaned. They had decided, at least between themselves, that using middle names was easier than dealing with the weirdness of addressing someone who looked just like them with their own name. The other Harry had immediately 'shortened' James to Jamie; Harry hadn't quite gotten to the point where he was willing to shorten Lucia-a name he rather liked-to Lucy-a name that made him think of brainless blonde bimbos. Unfair, true, but no matter how he looked at it, he just couldn't see himself addressing the other Harry as 'Lucy'._

_“Well, sort of, but not in the way you mean. It's just, you know, the Hat would have put me in Slytherin if I had let it” the muffled thud was Snape's jaw hitting the desk “and I figured that, being a Malfoy, you_ wouldn't _have objected, so it_ would _have put you in Slytherin.”_

_“I wouldn't have objected. I was actually rather hoping for it, so that I'd be in the same House as oniisan. But the stupid Hat insisted that I would do best in Gryffindor. Didn't even mention Slytherin, actually.” She pouted, then sighed. “Unfortunately, it was probably right. I never would have become nearly such good friends with Hermione or Ginny or any of the others otherwise.”_

She smiled at the gathered crowd, at ease among all these people she knew even though she really didn't. Not this incarnation. “Hello, everyone. I'm really excited to be a part of Hogwarts this year. This is such a wonderful place, it feels like I know you all already.” Her smile became a grin. “I ask that you please call me Harry, though. Whenever I hear the name 'Henrietta', I immediately start looking around to see what I've done wrong _now_.” That garnered some laughter.

“Again, I can't thank you enough for welcoming me this way. I hope to have a wonderful year.”

* * *

Remus Lupin watched from the High Table. The resemblance between Harry Evans and Harry Potter was simply astounding. With the exception of their individual facial scars, they seemed completely identical. What's more, he had passed her by on the way in, and she _smelled_ identical to Harry, too, with the exception of certain gender-based pheromones. And . . . something familiar in the girl. Something he couldn't quite place . . .

_No one_ smelled that similar. He had had younger brothers, once. Twins. And they had had a base scent far more different than these two Harrys. _Something_ was going on.

And too, was the way there had been something worrying Harry the previous evening. He had been around the boy enough (even if that had been over a year ago now) to be able to pick up certain aspects of his body language. It had been subliminal worry, one that he had seemed unaware of, but most definitely a worry nonetheless. And now that worry had dissipated completely. Even the suppressed anger and sorrow that Lupin had associated with the events at the end of the previous year was . . . _muted._

The girl, on the other hand, despite her outward cheer, looked to be holding in a very deep anguish of some sort. He had never seen anything like it. Or . . . no, that wasn't quite right. He had only once seen it, or, more specifically, felt it. The only thing he could compare this . . . almost aura . . . of hers to was the heartrending grief he had felt when he learned of James' death.

Then there was Snape. His greasy old schoolmate looked shell-shocked, and Lupin didn't think that reaction was just because he now had to deal with two identical Harrys. He considered. Harry had changed, and the new Harry was far less likely to confide. He'd be more likely to get Snape to let something slip (though he was still doubtful as to what useful information _Snape_ could possibly know about the situation)-at least there, he still knew the buttons to push.

He positioned himself so that he exited the hall at much the same time as the Potions Master. Rather well done, he thought, until Snape looked up. “What do you want, werewolf?”

Dang. “I was just wondering what had happened. You're not yourself this morning. Even by morning standards.” He smiled his nicest smile and crossed his fingers.

“Sod off, Remus.” Snape muttered. “I'm not in the mood.”

“Aw, c'mon, Snapie.” He pulled his best wheedling voice out of storage and brushed nearly twenty years' worth of dust off. “Now you have me _really_ curious. Promise I won't tell anyone.” Another winsome smile. Ah, annoying Snape. It made him feel eighteen again.

Snape was doing a rather good werewolf impression himself. “Fine. You're not going to leave me alone until you find out, are you?” Lupin endeavored to look innocent. Somehow, he got the idea it didn't work too well. “I learned last night that the Sorting Hat tried to put Harry Potter in Slytherin. Happy now?” He turned on his heel and stalked away.

Lupin blinked. _Well._ And blinked again. _Indeed._

* * *

Self-consciously, Harry put his arm around his 'twin'. He knew from experience that, despite appearances, it took more time than she had had to recover fully from the effects of the Cruciatus. She said nothing, just tossed him a grateful look and leaned a bit further against him, though unobtrusively, allowing him to support her. They walked along toward Gryffindor together.

“Ah, Mr. Potter, Miss Evans. A word, if you would?” In unison, the two turned to face the Headmaster, whose voice it had been.

“Yes, Headmaster?” They both asked politely. When he said nothing else, only turned, they fell into step behind him, and continued that way until they reached his office and stepped inside.

“Severus has told me that both of you would be interested in a course he is interested in offering. This is true?”

“Yes, Headmaster.” This time, they were slightly out of synch, Lucia replying a fraction more quickly.

“Good. Good. Now, Harry” he blinked “Potter, that is, I'm afraid you will be forced to drop both Divination and Care of Magical Creatures. You may pick another elective as you still have one free period; unfortunately, the right level of neither of those electives is offered at that time. “He handed a slip of paper to each. “Harry Potter, this is your modified schedule. Harry Evans, this will be your schedule for as long as you're with us.” He smiled genially. “You may both leave now.” He paused. “Actually, one thing if you would . . .”

On the verge of turning away, the two returned their attention to the Headmaster. “Seeing as this is a new elective, not many people know of its existence. If you would post this in your common room?” He held out a small scroll of parchment. After exchanging a quick glance with his twin, Harry Potter stepped forward to take it.

“Thank you, Headmaster.” The two smiled and left.

Once outside the door, they looked at each other, shrugged, and continued on down the hall. “So, what's your other elective?” Harry asked, giving his schedule a cursory glance. His free period was now, Monday mornings.

“Arithmancy.” Lucia replied quietly. “The first year.” She frowned slightly. “There's a note on the schedule . . . the first class, today, has been canceled. I wonder why?” A shrug. “Anyway. I used to take Muggle Studies, but it's not offered at the right time. And this way . . .” She trailed off.

“I may just join you.” Harry remarked. “It sounds interesting enough, and there probably aren't too many other electives at the right time. This way . . . it's kind of a gesture of remembrance for your oniisan? I think Hermione mentioned something about him being in her class at one point.” Harry shut his mouth abruptly. “Sorry. I didn't mean . . . to remind you . . .”

She sighed. “I'll get over it . . . eventually. I won't be so hypocritical as to claim that I'm over his death already . . . heck, I'm not even over _Cedric's_ death! . . . but I'm beginning to cope.” She shook her head. “But you've got to learn, Jamie, that not everything is your fault. Yes, you could have come through the mirror earlier-if you had even realized that it was possible!”

“But even then, there's the possibility that you would not have saved him. You might have just gotten yourself killed instead. What you said about my being a symbol of hope . . . well, that's at least ten times as true for you. Most people where I come from are still under the mistaken impression that Harry Potter is dead.”

Harry made a noncommittal sound. “I just wish . . . that I wasn't, sometimes. I mean, I have no problem with fighting evil and all that . . . erm, that is, no problem that can't be overcome by a suitable application of foolhardy Gryffindor bravery . . . but it's the expectations that weigh me down the worst.”

“I've known since I was eleven that everyone viewed me as something special, but somehow I've never quite seen it.” He waved his hand around, as if indicating the whole of the world. “Everyone expects that I will be the one to strike the finishing blow. Well, that's all well and good, I suppose, but what about everyone else. There are hundreds, thousands, at least of wizards who are far better trained and easily more powerful-at least right now-than I am. So, why me?”

“I don't have any relevant objection to striking the final blow; I like my revenge quite as well as anyone else, after all. I just wish it didn't sometimes feel like the entire wizarding world was just sitting around on their rears waiting for me to take care of the problem.”

Lucia smiled slightly. “I'm glad I never had to deal with that. Of course, I encountered a whole different sort of flak from both sides of the equation by being a Malfoy in Gryffindor, but at least the only expectations people had of me were to be a nasty Death Eater-in-training. And once they figured out that I _wasn't_ , a lot of the ambivalence-and the unreasonable expectations-died down. Still . . .”

Harry grinned suddenly, wryly. “I wonder if there's a lesson in there somewhere. 'First Law of the Universe: Harry Potter's life must, in some way, form, or fashion, be _crap_.'” He paused, then added, “'First Corollary: Home life must also be seriously screwed up.'”

Lucia snorted. “I would not be at all surprised.”

* * *

They managed to make their way into the common room fairly unobtrusively; most people had already come to get their supplies and left for their first class of the day. Of the fifth year Gryffindors, however, only those who took Ancient Runes (Hermione and, surprisingly enough, Seamus) were required to be anywhere the first class of the day.

Ron was seated in a chair over by the fire, staring moodily into the flames. Harry began to head in his friend's direction, before noticing a sudden stiffness in Lucia's posture. Shrugging, he reminded himself to ask her later. Then, something occurred to him. “Lucia . . .” he whispered, trying not to disturb Ron. “. . . have you ever seen pictures of my parents?” _Ours_ , he tried to make his eyes say.

She shook her head. “Come with me.” His mood improved, he began the process of dragging Lucia up to the fifth year boys' dorm.

“What are you, crazy?” She hissed as he shut the door. Dean and Neville were off somewhere-Harry couldn't find it within himself to care, much less try and find out where-so the two had the dorm to themselves.

“This is part of my subtle campaign to forcibly seduce you.” He replied calmly, offhandedly, as he dug through his trunk. Sudden silence. His head raised and he rolled his eyes and sighed. “That was something known as sarcasm, Lucia. No, I'm not crazy. I just wanted to show you something with less of a chance that the whole rest of the world would be watching. After a few minutes more of digging, he finally found and pulled out a rather large, leather-bound book. Here it is. Come on over, sit here. He patted a space on the floor next to him.”

Lucia, who had been sitting on Ron's bed-right next to his-slumped down to the floor next to him. With a nearly silent sigh, her head fell to his shoulder. In an almost instinctive motion, Harry smiled. Lucia's presence by his side just felt so . . . so _right_. He would never have guessed how much better it made him feel just to know that there was someone who had been through nearly everything he had; who really _could_ understand.

“That's our father.” He pointed out James Potter with a fond smile. “I've heard that I look just exactly like a younger version of him, except with my mother's eyes, of course.”

“Perhaps you did before you grew your hair out.” Lucia commented, looking between his face and the face of the grinning man in the pictures. She brushed a lock behind his ear. “Now, though . . .” She snorted. “We look more like . . .”

“Like Snape!” Harry laughed, throwing out the most unlikely name he could think of, the first that came to him.

“It's true, now that you mention it.” Lucia nodded. “We do actually look a lot more like Snape than James Potter.”

After a short pause, Harry brushed it off. “Yeah. I bet it's the greasy hair, the fact that I haven't been outside nearly all summer, and my recent growth spurt.” He made a sound of disgust deep in his throat. “Damn, but I hate adolescence. I think it was created solely in order to convince children that no, they don't want to become adults after all.”

Lucia's laughter was far from sympathetic. Finally, thankfully, she stopped. “And that's our mother?” She pointed out the young auburn-haired woman at James Potter's side. “The resemblance is a lot more distinct there. The eyes, of course, but I think there's something of her nose and perhaps a bit of her facial structure in our faces as well.”

They continued to flip through pages. Finally, as Harry reached the end, his thumb brushed against something he had never noticed before-the edge of the page was, in fact, two. Gently, he pried the two apart. Within were pictures he had never seen before. “Oh, Lucia, look! There's a picture of all the Marauders!”

“The what?”

Harry blinked. “You know, the Marauders.”

“Oh, right. The ones that created that map of Fred and George's. How do you know what they looked like?”

Harry blinked again. “ _You don't know?_ ” He squeaked. Embarrassed, he tried again. “How could you not know about the Marauders? Surely you know about Sirius Black being your godfather . . .”

“The murderer who wasn't actually one? I heard his story out, then decided to believe him. Oniisan thought I was absolutely nuts, but I let him go. We correspond occasionally, but he certainly never mentioned being my godfather.”

Harry hit his head with the palm of his hand. “Duh. Of course you wouldn't know. Sirius is _Harry Potter's_ godfather, not Harry Malfoy's. He probably didn't ever figure out that you were one and the same, not as a _Malfoy_.”

Lucia nodded. “So, Sirius is one of the Marauders? I assume that's him. She pointed out a somewhat taller and rather more conventionally handsome looking black-haired man. You- _our_ father was one. The brown-haired young man, he's . . . Professor Lupin?” She pursed her lips. “And the fourth. Peter Pettigrew . . . Wormtail? But how? I thought the Marauders were good.”

Harry frowned darkly. “Indeed. Padfoot, Prongs, Moony, and Wormtail.” He touched his finger lightly to each picture in turn. “They should have been. But Wormtail was too weak. Or jealous. Or something. And he turned.”

“He caused the death of our parents.” Lucia's hand closed over his own. “Don't worry, Jamie. We'll get him. Someday.” She stood, somewhat shakily. “Now, what do you say we go explore a bit? See if we can discover any new rooms.”

“I'm game. He, too, stood.” They wandered out of the room, leaving the album open on the floor behind them.

In the last picture, a young Lily Evans sat, leaning against a tree, engrossed in the book she held in her hands. After a time, a young man wandered onto the scene. Holding an apple, he glided over to where she sat and lowered himself beside her.

His chin hovering slightly above her shoulder as he munched distractedly on the apple, he too began to read. Her only indication that she noticed his presence at all, one of her hands raised and gently tucked a lock of long, straight, intensely black hair behind his ear.

* * *

They wandered along the halls, careful to try to avoid the ones in which classes were currently being taught. In low tones-more to avoid disturbing the ambiance of the halls than to avoid being overheard; who was around to overhear them, after all?-they discussed their lives, marveling at the similarities and examining the differences closely for reasons.

“So if no one knew you were Harry Potter, then how did you become the fourth Triwizard Champion?” Harry asked, intrigued.

Lucia brought her free arm around to rub embarrassedly at the back of her neck. “That. Well, Harry Potter did become the fourth Champion, but no one stepped forward to claim that they were 'him'. I was actually the fifth, technically.”

“But how?”

“That's the embarrassing part. You see, oniisan, Hermione and I snuck down one night to enter our slips. We used the Invisibility Cloak, then used the Floatation Charm to waft our slips past the Age Line and over the Goblet. Then we dropped them. Thing is, I had been kind of distracted when I wrote mine out. So I ended up being the only entrant for Howgarts.” Her face was red with embarrassment.

Harry laughed. He couldn't help it. “S-sorry.” He finally gasped out. “But . . . becoming a Triwizard Champion . . . because of a spelling mistake?” He chortled. “It's just too funny!”

They came upon a door. Like the intrepid explorers they were-or foolhardy Gryffindors at least-they opened it and peered inside. Darkness.

“ _Lumos._ ” Muttered by two voices at the same time with the same intonation. The two lights flared, brighter than had ever been summoned before by either, before dimming back down to their usual strength. Blinking spots out of their eyes, the two shared a curious glance. Unable to think of any good reason why that had happened, they shrugged and dismissed it, turning instead to look around the room.

It was a smallish room, and rather cluttered with all manner of things. Mostly old, nearly all broken. The only intact object in the room seemed to be an old trunk, so it was towards that the two automatically headed.

“Y'know, Jamie, there could be something seriously nasty hidden in there.” Lucia commented idly. Harry grunted. “Yeah, I didn't figure you cared either. So go ahead, open it.”

As the lid was lifted, they found the trunk disappointingly empty, not noticing a darkish misty substance that drifted upwards. Indeed, they had nearly turned to leave when Lucia, looking briefly upward, caught sight of something that made her whimper. Harry looked in that direction, but saw nothing harmful, only the moon.

Only the moon. There was something wrong with that statement. But what?

Oh, right. There was no such thing as the moon appearing indoors. Silly Harry. But then, what was this moon doing here? He noticed for the first time that Lucia clung to him, hiding her face against his chest. Evidently, though, this moon did not achieve the reaction it was looking for. It began to waver again, shifting to something else.

Shifting. A boggart. Of course. Then it completed its shift, and Harry felt cold shivers run down his back. A dementor. Already, the screams began. He closed his eyes and brought out his wand, unconscious of the fact that Lucia had moved away from him and was doing the same thing.

Happy memory. Happy memory.

Ah!

_“. . . he took one look at me, giggled, reached for the fluff on my head-already spiking all over the place-and said 'hairy!' And it stuck.”_

_Both Harrys laughed._

_And even Snape smiled._

It was a scene of quiet comfort. Strange, that Snape could be associated with something of that nature. But . . . in his fifteen years of life, he felt that that moment was perhaps the closest he had ever come to obtaining something that he had always, deep in his heart, wanted.

A family. And . . . home.

Home.

_“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”_

Light. Brighter than that of a thousand _Lumos_ '. A light that felt like it was burning away his eyes even through the scant protection his eyelids provided. Slowly, the light began to fade, eventually reaching the point where he felt it safe enough to crack open an eye.

Utter and complete darkness. Oh. Of course. The lights they had summoned had gone out. “ _Lumos_.” This time, although he blinked his eyes shut just in case, there was no unexpected flare. He looked around. No trace of the boggart.

“Did we just do what I think we just did?” Lucia asked in a hushed, almost awed voice.

“Get rid of a boggart. Without using _Riddikulus_. By using the Patronus Charm, which supposedly only works on dementors.” Harry's voice was flat with disbelief. “Bloody hell. That was . . . that was . . .” He obviously couldn't find any words that came even close to describing his feelings about the situation. “Has your Patronus _ever_ done something like that before?”

Even before she shook her head, he had known what her answer would be. She just looked too shocked. About as shocked as he felt, and probably looked as well.

“I think.” Her voice a bit shaky. His had probably been too, but he had been too . . . well, shaken . . . to notice. “That I would like to return to Gryffindor Tower now.”

He nodded. Perhaps a bit too fervently. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.” She returned to his side and they each wrapped an arm around the other, a position they had quickly become accustomed to.

At the doorway, Harry suddenly remembered the first shape the boggart had become and turned to frown, puzzled, at his 'twin'. “Lucia . . .” He could think of no good way to find out, except to ask. “. . . are you a werewolf?”

Her eyebrows raised in considerable surprise. A puzzled look began on her face as well. “Of course.” Then, more cautiously, “Aren't you?”

* * *

“. . . Look, I'll sneak around in the depths of darkness when it's necessary, but that doesn't have to mean that I think it's right. Frankly, I see it as cheating and . . . well, wrong. If I thought I could have gotten away with it during the day, I never would have even considered sneaking out that night.”

“I don't see why. It's only sensible to use what concealment is available when it's available. And to try to arrange events so that it is available.”

Remus Lupin, wandering down the hall, vaguely in the direction of his rooms, stopped as the sounds of conversation fell upon his ears. He'd have thought that most students would be in class right now-or if not there, then in their particular Houses. What were two doing out wandering the halls?

“But . . . it's not honourable.”

“It's sensible. If, say, Wormtail were to appear in front of you right now with his back turned, and you had your wand in your hand, are you trying to tell me that you'd warn him?” Lupin's interest in the conversation sharpened tenfold. They had mentioned Wormtail, when most students here didn't even know of his existence.

“You're crazy, Lucia.”

“As are you, Jamie. Shall we just agree to disagree?”

“I suppose so. I certainly seem to be having about as much luck convincing you-”

“-as I am at convincing you. Indeed.”

The two turned a corner, bringing them face to face with Lupin. He blinked. Just listening to them, it had almost been like hearing a Slytherin and a Gryffindor-if, that is, it ever came to pass that someone from each House could bear to hold a civil conversation with their rivals . . . dealing with such volatile subjects as their individual frames of mind, even!

Instead, what (or rather, who) he found in front of him was Harry . . . and Harry. Potter and Evans.

The two blinked, identical eyes that looked rather different than he remembered them being, although he could not pinpoint the difference. In fact, Harry as a whole looked rather _more_ different than he remembered. He no longer looked like a carbon copy of James Potter. Still, he somehow managed to look even more Harry than before.

“Hullo Professor Lupin.” The two chorused. “. . . erm, I mean, Remus.” The Harry on the left, the male one, Harry Potter, added guiltily. Both looked rather dusty, somewhat mussed up, and rather more tired than they really ought to be at this time of day.

“Good morning, Harry.” He returned cordially. “No class this morning, I suppose?”

A cheery smile. “Herbology after lunch, but we're free until then. I was just showing Lucia around.”

He wondered where that particular nickname had come from. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Evans.” He cringed inwardly. That last name just didn't sound right attached to anyone but Lily . . . even if the person in question did have Lily's eyes.

“It is a pleasure to meet you as well.” She said with a smile. It was Harry's smile, just as the intonation was Harry's and the voice, if it had been only a bit lower in pitch, could also have passed for Harry's. It was rather disconcerting. “Jamie has told me much about you. The smile changed, subtly, to Lily's 'I know something, but I'm not telling you, so there' smile, brimming with hidden mischief.”

“So, how are negotiations going?” Harry asked. “Anything interesting that's not, you know, top secret confidential or anything?”

“Frankly, nothing has happened yet, much less anything that would be sensitive enough to be confidential.” Lupin said with a deprecating laugh. “Negotiations haven't even really started yet. I think Dumbledore wanted to wait until all the House Heads were back from vacation so that he could consult with them as well-and that necessitated waiting until the school year began.”

Harry's eyes narrowed in sympathy. “Ouch. Having to present in front of Snape? I weep for you, Remus.”

The girl elbowed him sharply. “Honestly. Snape is _not_ that bad.” Confronted with two frankly disbelieving looks, she threw her hands up in the air. “I give up! Jamie, I'll meet you back at the Tower. I need a shower.” She brushed one hand through her hair in evident disgust, turned on her heel, and left.

“Jamie?” Lupin asked.

Harry shrugged. “We figured that it would be easier than referring to each other as 'Harry'. That would be just too weird. For some reason, she insists that I look more like a Jamie than a James. I haven't bothered to argue.”

They stood, a few feet away from each other, for a moment longer. “I probably ought to go on, too.” Harry finally said. “In case she . . . forgets the password . . . or something.” A brief laugh. “Not to mention the fact that I probably ought to get a shower as well. He lifted locks of straight black hair that fell limply back against his face as soon as he let go. I'm beginning to feel like Snape.”

“Don't tell me the Great Harry Potter is turning into a greasy slimeball?!” Lupin gasped, hand to his heart. “Your father must be spinning in his grave!” Both laughed.

The problem, Lupin reflected, as he watched Harry walk off, was that Harry _was_ beginning to look rather like Snape. And he had no idea how, why, or even if it was nothing more than his overactive imagination.

* * *

“It was Remus, wasn't it.”

“Yes.”

“But . . . the Wolfsbane Potion . . .”

“Does not take effect until one transforms fully into the wolf. On the night of a full moon, I foolishly went to try to find him, to get help for one of my DADA assignments. I entered just as he was in the middle of transforming. Maddened, insane, animalistic, he struck out with the claws that had already come out and slashed me across the chest.”

She unbuttoned her robes just enough to where she could pull down the neckline far enough to show him. Much like her scar, they were pale lines that nevertheless stood out against her only slightly less pale skin. Four, diagonal, across the right side of her chest just below her shoulder. He winced sympathetically. She covered herself back up and continued.

“As soon as he realized what he had done, he sunk into a morass of guilt, despite the fact that the fault was entirely my own. Once he was brought to the point where he could look at me without turning away in shame at his own actions, though, he provided an invaluable help to me in my process of adjustment.”

“Who knew? I mean, considering the uproar when certain people found out that _Lupin_ was a werewolf at the end of the year . . .”

“Hermione and oniisan, of course. I could hardly hide from them the fact that I fell ill once a month-'Mione would probably have figured it out almost right away anyway, and oniisan would have found out when our parents were told at the very latest.” She pursed her lips. “Um. Dumbledore-it was another one of those situations where you got the idea that he already knew.”

Harry nodded. He could sympathize with that sort of feeling.

“Oh, and Professor Snape.”

“Snape?!”

Her look had 'what are you, _stupid_?' written all over it. “He had to know to brew more Wolfsbane Potion.” She explained patiently. Now Harry really _did_ feel stupid.

“Well, this Snape doesn't know.” Harry said, rather unnecessarily. He perked up. “So, what do you look like?”

“According to Professor Lupin-for obvious reasons, he's the only one around when I change-I'm a very deep black. We think I have the same green eyes, but as a wolf he's somewhat colorblind in that area of the spectrum, so we don't know for sure.”

Harry cocked his head to one side. “I wonder what I'll be.”

“What are you talking about, Jamie? Whatever you're thinking . . . it's insane, isn't it.”

“Well, you know, you really ought to have some company. And with the negotiations and all, Remus isn't always going to be around-especially if you don't want to tell him. So, since even with the Wolfsbane Potion, it's not necessarily all that safe for me to be around you as a human, I figured I'd take a leaf out of my father's book and become an illegal Animagus.”

Lucia groaned, turned, and started hitting her head gently against the wall. “I knew it. Jamie, you are absolutely insane.”

The black-haired boy looked not at all phased by her judgment of his character. “Thank you!”

* * *

Throughout Herbology (with the fifth-year Ravenclaws, for a change), Harry had caught Lucia sending Ron suspicious looks. He might not be the brightest at figuring out relationships, but even he could figure out a hint that obvious.

Walking back toward the dorm, he slowed down. Lucia matched paces with him, head tilted slightly in question. As soon as the rest were out of sight, he turned to her. “Does Ron know?” He asked.

“Why on Earth would I tell that . . . that . . . she spluttered. Well, anything?! He'd have found a way to get me expelled if he had caught even a hint!”

“Ron?! Are we talking about the same person here? Ron would never do something like that!”

“Of course he would. The first time we meet, okay, he seems rather nice. I'd heard everything Father had to say about the Weasleys, of course, but I didn't put much thought into it. I mean, I already knew he was wrong about Muggles.” She shrugged. “And then oniisan comes to sit with me like we had arranged.”

“So, everything seems to be going fairly well, until oniisan introduces himself. Then the prat totally flies off the handle, saying that I was trying to trick him into something nasty or something like that!” She threw her hands up in the air. “It's like being a Malfoy made me lower than dirt to him!”

“And _then_ , we end up in the same House! He's been trying to make my life hell ever since!” She smirked. “Especially when _I_ got made Seeker, the position that _he_ wanted. Best part of Quidditch, being able to shove in his face that I'm a better flier than him.”

Harry shook his head. “I've been friends with Ron since my first day. Sure, he sometimes jumps to conclusions and he has a bit of a temper, but I've never known him to hold a grudge for that long.” _Except against Malfoy_. A part of his mind whispered. _Yeah, well, Malfoy deserves it_. He answered back, uncomfortably aware that the retort didn't feel nearly as sure as he had meant it to. “It sounds to me almost like Ron and Malfoy switched attitudes.”

“Don't tell me that Weasley is the one that guided you through the wizard chess match back in first year?”

“Yes, in fact, he did.” Harry sighed. “Look. You've got to believe that my Ron is different. I suppose it's too much to expect that the two of you would become friends, but . . . could you at least stop glaring at him so, well, openly?”

“I'll try.” She sighed. Then her eyes widened. “Him and oniisan switching attitudes . . . does that mean . . . 'Mione and . . . _him_?!”

Her resounding echoed through the now-empty hall. Making the connection, Harry found he could only just barely restrain himself from joining in. Hermione . . . and Malfoy?

That was just plain _sick_.

* * *

“When's the next full moon?”

Lucia closed her eyes. “If the lunar cycle is the same in both worlds, it should be in about two weeks. Fifteen days, to be exact.” She raised an eyebrow. “Plotting out just exactly how obsessively you're going to have to study in order to be an Animagus in time?”

“Actually, I was trying to figure out how much time we had in which to inform Snape of your 'condition'. But that works too.” Harry grinned.

Lucia sighed. “Have I told you that you're insane recently?”

“Not in the last five minutes.” Harry chirped.

“You were right about informing Professor Snape. The sooner that gets done, the better. I just keep on forgetting that he doesn't already know.” She nodded firmly. “I'll go do that now. _No_ , you don't have to come with me. I am my own person, and I can take care of myself just as well as you can, you know.”

“Yeah, I know . . . I'm just worried, you know? You're the closest thing I have to real family, and now that I know you, I don't want to lose you.” Harry sighed. “But . . . I know that being treated like that would drive me absolutely nuts-and I'm certain I'd be much less nice about it than you have been. I'll try not to smother you quite so much.” He grinned. “After all, I should know better than anyone that Harry Potter can take anything life throws at him-or her. Or so the popular mythology goes.”

They reached a split in the corridor. One branch headed in the general direction of the dungeons, the other more towards the main section of the school and Gryffindor Tower. “See you later, Lucia.”

“Later, Jamie.” They each turned in their own separate directions and walked away.

Upon reaching Gryffindor Tower, Harry was sprung upon by two very familiar people. “Harry!” Hermione cried, apparently offended. “A dream! Really, I'd have thought you could confide the real reason in us. How long have you known Miss Evans, really?”

“It _was_ the truth! Just not the whole of it. I dreamed of her on my birthday, only since we look so much alike, I thought I was dreaming about myself. I never met her face-to-face until last night. It just feels like we've known each other forever.”

“So what's your schedule like?” Ron snitched it easily from his pocket. “What? You've dropped Divination? You're leaving me to suffer alone?!” His voice was plaintive. “And what's this 'Survival' you have marked on here?”

Instead of answering directly, Harry took out the notice Dumbledore had given him to post on the common room bulletin board. He walked over and posted it in the center of the so far empty board with a quick, simple sticking charm.

Ron and Hermione wandered over behind him, reading the notice over his shoulder. “Three times a week for one class? Are you insane, Harry?” His redheaded friend asked.

He rolled his eyes skyward. “Why do people persist in asking me that? I'm taking Survival because I think it will be useful to me, and I dropped Divination because I didn't have room to keep them both. Care of Magical Creatures just didn't fit in my schedule-it was at the wrong time. I'm thinking of taking up Arithmancy instead.”

“Good for you, Harry.” Hermione smiled. “Arithmancy is a quite educational course. And after all, of what possible use could Divination be, anyway?”

“An easy good grade?” Ron offered helpfully. “Sorry, Harry, but I don't think I'll be joining you. Three times a week is just a bit much-you'll have practically no free time at all!”

Hermione, too, looked regretful. “I'd like to join-assuming they're still taking new students-but I'd have to get rid of too many of my other classes.” Harry assumed Snape was still taking new students, as the class had only been made a part of the curriculum the previous evening.

He was rather regretful that his friends would not be joining him in the class-he'd probably need all the moral support he could get, with Snape teaching the course-but at least Lucia would be there.

* * *

She knocked on his office door timidly. If this Professor Snape was anything like hers, he would have left the classroom as soon as possible for the sanctity of his office. That is, excepting the times when he had detentions to supervise.

“Potter. What do you want?”

Same irritated voice. She smiled at the familiarity. Some things, it seemed, never changed. “That's Evans, sir.” She corrected mildly, looking up into his face. The man was far too tall for her liking-especially being such a midget as she was. She kept _hoping_ she'd grow out of it eventually.

Did his face soften slightly? It was rather hard to tell; she had never grown very adept at reading her secretive Potions instructor.

“Could we talk inside, please?” She requested, glancing around the hallway. No one was around, but she still felt a bit on edge. Perhaps it was just the sheer strangeness of talking in the doorway like this. Her Snape knew her well enough that he would let her in without a second thought.

After a long moment, he nodded curtly. “Come in.”

She followed him back in, closing the door softly as she entered fully into the room. Once inside, she made a beeline for the further away of the two more comfortable chairs that made this office their home. “Thank you, Professor.”

“You're welcome, I suppose.” Funny. He hadn't been thanked this much in years. “You seem to know your way around my office rather well. Were you really that close to my counterpart?” Him, acting as a father-figure towards a _Gryffindor_?! The thought still boggled him.

She cocked her head. “I wouldn't call it close, exactly. You were just . . . always around. I'd come to you with my problems-the more serious of them, at least-because you were the professor I felt most comfortable confiding in, you being oniisan's godfather and all. We'd talk, and you'd berate me for being a stupid, foolhardy Gryffindor who always thought with her heart instead of with her head like a normal, sane, reasonable person.” She grinned.

Snape honestly couldn't help the _very_ slight upward curve to his lips. The sentiment . . . even the presumed inflection . . . was so very _himself_ , after all. That word, though. He never had quite figured out what it meant. “What does oh-knee-sahn mean?”

She looked genuinely startled. “It's Japanese for older brother. It's what I always call . . . called . . . my brother.” Her eyes darkened. “His birthday was in early October. My parents had no idea what my birthday was, so they decided to make it the day my mother found me-Halloween, that is. So, in effect, I've lived my life thinking I was about nine months older than I actually am.”

She smiled slightly, and Snape found himself surprised that he was relieved that the darkness had faded somewhat from her eyes. “It's going to be so strange, not turning sixteen until next July. We always held joint birthday parties, oniisan and I. This will be my first birthday without him since . . . well, my first birthday.”

“He really meant a lot to you, didn't he?” _What am I_ doing _?_ Snape was _never_ this sympathetic, not even to his first-years.

“He was my life.” She said quietly. “. . . I guess I now have conclusive proof that I was his, too. We were such total opposites-myself, Gryffindor and dark to his Slytherin and pale. Yet we never argued.” A halfhearted smile. “Except those times when he bawled me out for acting 'insanely Gryffindor'. Those sessions would turn into shouting matches, as Hermione stood off to the side and tried her hardest to get us calmed down.”

Her smile was becoming more real now. “Usually around that time, you'd glide up and fix us with one of your long-suffering Looks and say, 'Dear me, what trouble have you just gotten yourself out of now? A point off, Miss Malfoy, for being insufferably Gryffindor. See that it doesn't happen again.'”

Snape snorted. That, too, sounded like him . . . except it sounded too, well, lighthearted. Almost teasing. He began to suspect that, beneath the surface, there truly were a certain number of differences between himself and the other Snape.

They settled into a comfortable silence. “Was there a reason you came down here?” Snape asked, finally. Surely she hadn't come just to talk to _him_.

She looked down at her hands, suddenly ill-at-ease. “That's right. I feel so at home here that I keep forgetting that you're not the professor I've grown up around.” She brushed her left hand through her short hair. “I'd like to come back some other time just to talk, but you're right, I did have a purpose in coming here. You're going to need to keep a larger stock of Wolfsbane Potion.”

Snape's brows furrowed. “Is the 'Dark creatures', he said the words with a delicate sarcasm that reflected more subtly the same disdain towards that particular title that Harry had shown, delegation going to increase? I hadn't heard anything.”

She shook her head, no. What then? “Professor Snape . . . I, too, am a werewolf.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10 September 2002


	4. An Unlikely Partnership

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I like more about myself now than 2002!me:   
> \- My still-very-white self is hopefully slightly more aware of things like systematic racism, and why ethnic identity can, in fact, matter quite a bit. XD  
> \- I don't have to deal with college applications anymore 
> 
> ==
> 
> College apps are evil. It's not the paperwork-while I find filling out my name, birthday, social security number, ethnic identity (human!), etcetera ad nauseum rather boring, I don't have too much of a problem with it.
> 
> It's those essays! ARGH! Tell us all about your life in 500 words or less. I can't say anything worth saying in 500 words or less! It's impossible! It's less than a page!
> 
> And don't even get me started on 250 words or less . . .
> 
> Anyway. As you ought to know by now, this chapter, much like the others, is considerably more than 500 words (*thinks about having to try to write a chapter that length* *tries to think about writing anything other than a poem that length* *ACK!s and runs to hide under the bed*).
> 
> Within this much-longer-than-500-words,-thank-you! chapter, there are a variety of characters. With no exception at this time, I believe, they all belong to J.K. Rowling. I've just tweaked (and doubled) a few of them. One of the more warped plot points is due solely to the creative genius of Severitus-this being an answer to the aptly named Severitus' Challenge.
> 
> And now, on to the next installment of Questions that Demand Answers:
> 
> Q4: Three days a week? Is that possible?  
> A4: I think so. Tell me if I've missed anything:
> 
> Monday: Arithmancy Herbology (w/Ravenclaw)  
> Tuesday: Transfiguration Survival  
> Wednesday: Charms Survival  
> Thursday" DADA Survival  
> Friday: Potions (w/Slytherin) History of Magic
> 
> Astronomy Monday nights

Tuesday morning dawned bright and early, and Harry learned something new about his twin. Lucia, it seemed, was a morning person. Dragged out of bed at an absolutely ungodly hour, Harry found that for once, he was actually wide awake by the time his first class of the day came around.

In this case, the first class of the day was Transfiguration. McGonagall seemed not to have changed at all over the summer, and he slipped easily back into his usual routine in that class, with one major exception-Harry was actually making a point to pay more than minimal attention this year. Combined with his extra studying over the summer-even though Transfiguration, like Charms, had been next to impossible for him to practice-he found that he could now do the assignments with nearly as much ease as Hermione.

Lucia, though, seemed to have about as much trouble as he had had in previous years-she could do the assignments, and well, but usually not until the second or third try. His new adeptness with Transfiguration earned him a word of praise from McGonagall and a point to Gryffindor. It felt good, he realized. There was a great deal of personal satisfaction in knowing that he had this ability. It was even a rather addictive feeling, much as the learning itself had become.

Hermione congratulated him in whispers when McGonagall wasn't looking. He accepted her approving comments with a shy grin. A grin that fell away as class ended and they packed up to go to lunch. He knew quite well what was coming up next.

The first Survival class.

“Nervous?” Lucia asked, still smiling. She had come back from her talk with Snape the previous night with a smile on her face and only just barely in time for them to hurry up to the Astronomy tower for the night's lesson. Despite his only half-joking inquiries, she refused to say anything about the interview other than the fact that Snape had been told.

Which reminded Harry that he needed to go by the library and see if it had any books on the process to becoming an Animagus. Lucia was right; if he wanted to be ready in time for her first transformation in this world, he would have to study, and hard.

As if he didn't have enough on his plate already.

* * *

“Welcome, all, to your first class in Survival.” Snape stood at the front of the room, imposing as always. “Here, you will learn many things. The subtle art of potionmaking, specifically those potions that are useful in battle situations. Charms and hexes that can be used both for defense and for offense. Specific ways to defend yourself from a variety of Dark creatures that you may or may not encounter. Various physical ways to defend yourself, in case the time should ever arise when you are left wandless.”

He had been pacing during his speech, a speech that was every bit as mesmerising as the one he delivered to first year Potions students every year. Now he stopped. “In short, I will teach you to survive.”

“I will throw you into situations the like of which few, if any, of you have ever encountered before, and I will expect you to find your way out. I will be twice as harsh as any other professor you are ever likely to encounter. You will go out into the world after my class and know that just about anything the world can throw at you, you can deal with.”

“You will curse my name long and loud. I guarantee it.” His cold black eyes made contact with every single other person in the room. Cho was there, and Justin Finch-Fletchly. Parvati was the only other fifth-year Gryffindor in the group, but both the Weasley twins were there-for once, acting serious-as well as Fred's girlfriend, Angelina. Draco Malfoy was there, for once unaccompanied by his dual shadow, Crabbe and Goyle. There were a couple of fourth-year Hufflepuffs, a sprinkling of Ravenclaws, and only one other Slytherin. Blaise Zabini, Harry thought his name was.

“Any who wish to leave now may, with no consequence other than the biddings of your conscience.” Again he looked around. Several stirred uneasily, but no one moved. “In less than a minute, I will put up a barrier around this classroom. Only Survival students will be able to come through this barrier. Once the barrier is up, although you will retain the memories of each lesson, you will be unable to speak of, write about, gesture about, or in any other way communicate to any non-Survival student any of the specifics of this class.”

An immediate storm of protest. “This is because I will be hard on you; on all of you. You all have families, some of which I am sure would protest if they were to find out exactly how I am treating their precious baby children. If you have a problem with my teaching methods, tell me to my face instead of running to hide behind your parents.” He looked around, and sneered. “Any others having second thoughts?”

One of the Ravenclaws stood and walked out silently. The Hufflepuffs were pale, but they remained. “Good. It is . . . heartening . . . to see that not all of you so-called students are completely lacking in courage. Some of you may even see this class through. Now follow me.”

He turned and, with quick steps, exited the room. Feeling a certain amount of trepidation, all the remaining students followed, until they clustered behind him right outside the door. “The more observant of you may have noticed that there is no portrait guarding the entrance to this room. It has a different, and far more effective guarding system.”

He stepped up, placed one hand flat against a panel of the wall that stood out slightly from the rest and glowed a very faint green. In a clear voice, he pronounced the words, “Tom Riddle.” The door to the classroom, which had shut as the last student left, reopened. “I advise none of the rest of you to attempt this using my password, as the door will open only under the correct combination of password, aural signature-read through the palm-and voice.”

“Each of you will now come up and key yourselves in. Simply place your palm to the panel and say the word or words you have chosen as your password twice. As you do this, I will place upon each of you the spell that forbids you from communication about this class in specific terms outside this room. Once that has been done, you will reenter the room and wait. This is your last chance to back out.”

No one moved. Finally, sharing a glance, Harry and Lucia stepped forward together. Harry stayed back just a bit, allowing Lucia to go first. She stepped up, placed her hand firmly against the panel, and spoke. “Oniisan.” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Oniisan.” This time, her voice remained steady.

A look at Snape showed that he was glaring intently at her, muttering words under his breath. The 'silencing' spell, Harry assumed. Just as Snape stopped muttering, she shuddered and the door opened. Without even looking back, she walked through the door, head held high.

Harry licked his lips. Ever since Snape had mentioned passwords, he had been trying to come up with a good one. Now, he thought he had a perfect one.

He was, after all, the latest and one of the strongest reasons why Harry felt the need to fight Voldemort-which this class would undeniably help him to prepare for. “Cedric.” He said quietly, mouth dry. Behind him, there was a muffled gasp or two. “Cedric.”

A shudder passed through him. Snape had finished the spell. Like Lucia before him, he continued on into the classroom without another word.

Behind him, a breathy voice, one he did not recognize. “Loyalty.” Ah. One of the Hufflepuffs, no doubt. The door closed behind him, and he looked in astonishment upon a much-changed room.

The desks they had sat in before were no longer there. Instead, large bubbles-the size of two people, easily-of varying colors sat on the floor or floated just above it. There was no sign of Lucia.

Just as he was beginning to worry, he noticed one of the bubbles edging in his direction. Before he could dodge, it swept forward and engulfed him.

He fell deep, beginning to lose consciousness, knowing only that he was surrounded by green, deep, beautiful, comforting emerald green.

* * *

The world was tinted green. That was his first thought when he woke up. After only a moment, he came to the conclusion that it looked that way because he was now, somehow, trapped within the bubble that had pursued him earlier. There was no sign of any of the other students, only Snape sitting calmly at a desk that had not been there when he re-entered the room.

Not for the first time, Harry began to entertain thoughts that not all, perhaps, was quite . . . normal . . . with this room-even by Hogwarts standards. Noting Snape's relaxed posture, he decided that whatever these bubbles were, they were evidently an exercised planned by him, not any sort of malicious plot.

Although tempted to sit back, relax, and wait until the time when Snape saw fit to extend to them more instructions, he doubted that that was the point. Most likely, this was something of an evaluation exercise-something to show him how each of them reacted to an unexpected and possibly hostile situation.

He stood and stretched out his hand to touch the skin of the bubble. It felt rubbery and was cool to the touch. Possible, then, that a fire spell could burn it away . . . but what if the entire bubble caught on fire? He could be burned alive!

Perhaps a more thorough examination could make more sense out of this puzzle.

* * *

Snape leaned back in his chair, enjoying the relaxation of body, at least, if not of mind. In his hands-seemingly innocuous and blank papers from the view of the rest of the room-he held miniature progress reports on each of his students.

The Ravenclaws had all come to the conclusion that this was merely a test, and there was nothing threatening about the situation, so they were content to sit back and wait. Of course, what they had figured out was the truth, but not all of it-while this was a test, it was meant to be taken at face value.

The Hufflepuffs had each chosen a venue-magic or physical force-and were exerting themselves to break through with all their might and determination.

The Slytherins-both Draco and Blaise-seemed to have come to the same conclusions as the Ravenclaws, but were accustomed enough to thinking around corners that they knew there was a catch somewhere. So while they sat and waited, they were also on alert for any hint of change.

The Gryffindors were a bit more varied. Miss Patil seemed to be trying to divine the answer to her current problem using a pendant she had taken from around her neck, both Weasleys were alternating throwing hexes and curses (of the obscene variety) at the walls. Miss Evans was cool, collected, and seemed to be working her way up through every curse she knew, in order.

Harry Potter was the surprise. At first, he had sat there, and Snape had been wondering if the boy had actually paused enough to put the sort of thought into his predicament that the Slytherins and Ravenclaws had. But then, he stood and began to . . . explore the bubble. Almost as if he was looking, analytically, for a weak point.

For the first time, Snape truly appreciated why the Sorting Hat had tried to put Potter into Slytherin. His manner of approaching the problem was entirely unlike that of the rest of the Gryffindors.

After exploring all he could, Potter sat, leaned back against the wall of the bubble, and closed his eyes.

Everyone else seemed to have either settled down or settled into a rhythm. Snape smirked, and made a small motion with his wand. Time for part two of the exercise.

* * *

Had he not forced himself into such a state of calmness, Harry would never have even felt the movement. As it was, he did, and he also felt a shudder that ran through the skin of his bubble as it joined with something. He opened his eyes. And closed them again. “Go away, Malfoy.” He said quietly. “I don't feel like dealing with you right now.”

“Believe me,” sarcastically, “I am equally as enthused at the prospect of being around you for any long period of time as you are, Potter.”

Despite the thickness of the bubble, through which it seemed little to no sound ought to be possible, Snape's words were clear as day. “These will be your partners for quite a while. Your first lesson is to learn to work together. Until you do, there will be no way for you to exit my little . . . experiment. If you miss supper . . . well, I suppose that's your problem. I will see you tomorrow.”

With that, Snape walked out, leaving Harry and Draco to stare after him in undisguised horror.

* * *

“I loathe you, Potter.”

“The feeling is returned in spades, Malfoy.” They were the only two left in the classroom. The first pair had been Justin Finch-Fletchly and Parvati. Harry had taken time from their arguments to gloat about the fact that one of the first out had been a Gryffindor.

Around the time they were exhaustively insulting each others' ancestry practically back to the Stone Age, Blaise Zabini and one of the Ravenclaws had succeeded. Then it was Malfoy's turn to gloat.

Lucia and Cho had come out not long after, causing Harry to sigh enviously. What he would have given to be paired with either one . . .

“Pining after the pretty little Ravenclaw?” Malfoy sniped.

Harry was startled enough to give a completely true answer. “Of course not! She's a friend, is all. And I was just thinking it would have been nice to be paired in this with someone who I can actually stand to be around.”

“Perhaps that's why you're sitting now, hm?” The conversation, as all their conversations inevitably did, degenerated from there.

* * *

“What exactly did he mean by 'work together'?” Harry mused some time later. Seeing Malfoy opening his mouth for another snide remark, he added hurridly. “I mean . . . do we actually have to mean it?”

Malfoy closed his mouth, a curious look on his face. “I'm surprised, Potter. That was almost . . . Slytherin of you.”

Harry pursed his lips, then finally decided to take the statement as the compliment it had been meant as. “Thank you.”

This unexpected comment surprised Malfoy into a genuine laugh. For a moment, and only a moment, his face was transformed. “Careful, Potter, or I might start liking you.”

“Would that truly be such a bad thing?” Harry asked. “It's not like I don't already have more enemies than I can handle.” He raised an eyebrow. “I'm still not thrilled with your comments at dinner day before yesterday. And you never did answer my question.”

Malfoy's eyebrow raised too, in perfect mimicry. “Was this a question you asked before or after you punched me?”

Harry blushed. “I'm sorry about punching you. I mean, what you said . . . about Cedric and everything else . . . was uncalled for, but still no reason for me to react physically. I was distracted and you just made me so mad . . . I really ought to learn to hold my temper better.”

“Well, with Weasley as your only role model, I'm surprised you haven't hauled off and hit me long before now.” Malfoy snorted. “Surely you've guessed that I've been trying to provoke you into just that sort of action for over four years now.” He narrowed his eyes. “And then, when I finally manage it, _I_ get taken to task for my words, and _you_ barely even get a slap on your wrist.”

“I do seem to get all the luck, don't I.” Harry said casually. “Perhaps it’s because everyone's so damn obsessed with how famous and special and wonderful I am. The 'Boy-Who-Lived' can do no wrong, after all.” He ended bitterly. “Honestly. I am _so_ tired of all that crap.”

“You seem to be happy enough to soak it up to me.” Malfoy sounded disbelieving. “Who wouldn't want to be famous?”

“Malfoy. For once in your life put our mutual antipathy aside and answer me this. When have I _ever_ wallowed in my fame? As to your second question: I don't want to be famous. I'm on public display and people think they have the right to know everything about me.”

“The poor pathetic orphan boy. Don't you feel so sad for me? What if Hermione really had been my girlfriend last year, or if I had been seriously seeing anyone else, for that matter? Can you honestly say you don't think that the intense scrutiny they'd be put under would drive them away?” He shook his head. “And frankly, the sort of person who wouldn't be driven away, the sort who would thrive in that environment, is exactly the sort of person I wouldn't want to be with.”

“But why am I bothering to tell you this, anyway? You hate me and I hate you and there's no chance that either of us is ever going to understand the other.” Harry turned his back on Malfoy, staring out into the room, dimming in shades of emerald green.

He sighed, resting his forehead against the still-cool rubbery substance. “And it's not like I even deserve my fame. My mother died for me, that's all. There's nothing special about me.”

“Now _that_ is pure hogwash.” Malfoy snorted. “I don't know _what_ sort of idiot told you that, but it is so untrue it's not even funny. Love can be a powerful charm, death provides great power, and death for love, it is true, can create quite a powerful charm. But nothing strong enough to reflect a Killing Curse back upon its author.”

“Honestly, Potter!” He barked. “Are you so wrapped up in your own little world that it never occured to you that you are not the only infant child whose mother died for him? In all those other cases, the children too died, and some of them were children of witches quite as powerful as I've heard your mother was.”

Harry had turned back around, regarding the blond boy with something approximating surprise. Malfoy shook his head. “As much as I am loath to admit it, Potter, there is something special about you. Not your mother. You.”

Harry remembered, suddenly, that the Headmaster had never told him just exactly why it was that Voldemort had come after him in the first place. Somehow, he couldn't help but feel that the two were somehow connected. “But why would Dumbledore lie to me . . .?”

“Dumbledore told you that . . . that nonsense about your mother?” Malfoy squeaked, looking utterly taken aback. Despite his House affiliation, the Slytherin held nothing but respect toward their aged Headmaster.

Harry had sunken into his memories; suddenly another fragment brought his head up. His eyes blazed with a fury that surprised Malfoy. “And Hagrid . . . he told me that all evil wizards came from Slytherin. 'There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin', he said.” Malfoy found himself having a hard time refraining from backing away as the other boy literally _growled._

“Not that I appreciate the slur on my house, or anything, but what has you so riled up?” It took a false start, but he finally got the question out of his tight throat.

“Wormtail. He was one of the Marauders, which means he was in Gryffindor. I'm sure of it.” The emerald fire in his eyes was even more pronounced now. Then, suddenly, it all died out. Tiredly, Harry shook his head. “I just wish I knew why. Did Hagrid honestly not know any better? Is, or was, Dumbledore trying to manipulate me? But if so, then into what?”

“What could he gain by lying to me like that, even if by implication and by proxy?” Harry rested his head in his hands. “If Hagrid hadn't badmouthed Slytherin, I might not have resisted so hard when the Sorting Hat suggested I go there. Then again, I might have still, because of the impression you made on me.”

“So I suppose we can list that as a possible benefit: for some reason, he may have really wanted me to be in Gryffindor. But what would my House affiliation have had to do with anything?”

“If you had come to Slytherin, you most definitely would not have become such good friends with Granger and Weasley.” Malfoy offered, intrigued in spite of himself by the problem Harry presented.

“Ron, no. I love him dearly, but he's too blinded, at times, by House and family reputations to see through to the truth of things. Hermione, though . . . she's Muggle-born, so she would not have grown up with the stigma against Slytherin. There still would have been a chance for us to be friends, if not a very good one.”

“There would have been no doubt in anyone's mind that you truly were the Heir to Slytherin.” Malfoy joked weakly.

Harry's eyes opened wide. “I wonder . . .” He shook his head. “Do you think Gryffindor's sword would still have come to me if I hadn't been in Gryffindor?”

“Gryffindor's sword?” Malfoy leaned forward. “I thought that was just a legend. You found it?”

“Pulled it out of the Sorting Hat, actually. Kinda makes you wonder what else the thing is hiding, doesn't it?”

“I'd say it would have been very unlikely. You might have ended up with someone else's weapon, though. After all, if Gryffindor had one, it only makes sense that the other three would as well.”

Malfoy could see from the look in Harry's eyes that the other boy had an idea . . . and he wasn't sharing. _Damn it! Since when has he become so hard to read?_ Finally, he broke down and asked. “You have an idea. Care to share?” Okay, so maybe asked was a bit strong of a word in this situation.

Harry shook his head, paused, then nodded. “I'm not going to tell you yet; I may just be blowing smoke. I need to find a good geneology chart, then I can tell you for sure.”

“They probably have something like that in the library.” Malfoy offered. “You're going to bring me along, of course?”

“I wouldn't dare try otherwise.” Harry grinned. “So . . . do you think we can give this working together thing a try after all?” He held out his hand.

Malfoy had a brief flashback to when he had made that exact same gesture and been rudely rebuffed. Through his recent conversation, he now knew exactly where he had gone wrong. For someone who was not a Hufflepuff, Harry Potter possessed an amazing store of loyalty toward his friends. Because of this, he truly didn't care who was and was not the 'right sort' of person to make friends with. It was a strangely liberating concept.

For a moment, and only a moment, Malfoy considered refusing. It would serve Potter right, after all, for refusing _him_ those years ago. But . . . he had been willing to try to be friends with Potter those years ago; deep inside had anything really changed?

Besides, the mystery was just too much to resist.

Potter, he saw, had begun to lower his hand, those emerald eyes darkening slightly with disappointment-or was that just a trick of the fading light? His hand shot out and caught the other's by the wrist, for only a moment. He then clasped hands firmly with his once-arch-nemesis. “Why not?”

* * *

“I can't believe it. This is _just_ the sort of sadistic thing I'd expect of Snape.” Cho muttered, looking at her plate. “Harry and Malfoy. Honestly.” The dark-haired Ravenclaw had been adopted as an honorary Gryffindor for the evening by her Survival classmates and was eating supper with them.

Lucia felt rather more irritated than she expected. This wasn't _her_ Draco, after all. Even from what little exposure she had had to the boy, she could tell that much. Still . . . no matter what his attitude, this _was_ her brother they were talking about. “What's wrong with that?”

'You have _got_ to be kidding.' Cho's look seemed to say. “Oh, nothing much. Just the fact that the two of them have been at each others' throats constantly practically since they got off the Hogwarts Express first year.” She sighed. “Just watch. They probably won't come out for another week, around the time that they have to be brought out or risk starvation and dehydration to the point of nearing death. That or one or both of their dead bodies will be dragged out of there at some point.”

“You're being too pessimistic.” Lucia chided. “Ja-Harry will pull through. He always does somehow, and besides, he and Malfoy are more alike than they think.” She had to suppress a wince at referring to her oniisan (even if he wasn't) in so cold a manner. But it was true. Jamie and oniisan-and thus, most likely this Draco as well-were more alike than she and oniisan had ever been.

“I could start a betting pool.” Fred suggested perkily. Lucia, Cho, Parvati, Angelina, and even George-his own twin!-glared. “or not.” He added weakly.

* * *

From the high table, Snape also watched. He had made a note of which teams had gotten out soon enough to arrive at dinner on time, which had come in a bit late, and which-precisely two-had not yet come. The next morning he would go check the observational papers in the room itself in order to find out exact times.

The two remaining were the ones he had fully expected would have the most trouble in working together. Although the pairing itself had come as something of a surprise to him.

The bubbles had been magically 'programmed' to pair up two people who would work best with each other, with a stipulation that they not be of the same house unless there was no pairing that even closely approached their effectiveness.

The only pair that had remained in-House, in fact, came as a bit of a surprise, including as it did one of the Weasley twins . . . but _not_ the other. Fred Weasley and Angelina Johnson. George had ended up with a fellow seventh-year Ravenclaw.

But of all the people that Snape had privately expected would make a good team, the combination of Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter had never occured to him. He hoped they wouldn't hurt each other too badly; having to haul students up to the hospital wing on the second day of school would _not_ endear him to Poppy.

Then again, who knows? Perhaps the bubbles had made a good choice and the two of them _could_ learn to work together.

. . . Nah.

* * *

At that very moment, the two fifth-year students in question, having been freed from their emerald bubble, were quite happily insulting each other in any and every way possible on the way to the library. Both had agreed that they were far more interested in proving or disproving Harry's secret theory, just now, than in food.

“Why won't you tell me?” Draco attempted his best whining tone.

“Are you _trying_ to be annoying?”

“Yes.” An innocent tone. “You noticed?”

Harry snorted. “I don't see what you're trying to accomplish. You know I'm not going to tell you.”

“But if I annoy you enough,” Draco pointed out with impeccable logic, “you might drop a hint or two.”

Silence.

“Why bother, when you will learn soon enough?” They passed by the gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster's office. “Oh, right. Just a second.” Harry grabbed an only slightly crumpled piece of paper and a pen out of his pocket. He scribbled a message, then used his wand to stick the note to the gargoyle's nose.

“What's that. Is it a Muggle artifact?” Draco's eyes had caught on the pen. “But, if it's not magical, then how does it make the ink appear like that?”

“It's a ballpoint pen.” Harry explained easily. “I don't usually use them because quills don't leak nearly as much, and the quill ink had a Fast-Dry charm added to it, but in this case I really didn't want to bother.” He gave the pen to Draco. “Here. You can have it. My cousin has a million and a half and he's lost most of them. I can snitch another later.”

Draco shook it, peering into the little hole that the 'nib' of the pen had withdrawn into. “Wicked. How does it work?”

He looked around and added quickly, “Not that I really care, of course. It's just some stupid Muggle thing.”

Though his eyes laughed at Draco's sad attempt at recovery, Harry managed to school his mouth to an expression of remarkable gravity. “Of course.”

* * *

At the desk, the two boys asked Madam Pince where they could find genealogical references. “Malfoy here is trying to prove to me that he truly is pureblooded.” Harry lied with a straight face.

Draco elbowed him, then came up with an innocent face of his own. “I already know that Potter's mother was a dirty mudblood, but since he's insulting my lineage, I'm going to prove to him that even the Potters weren't pureblooded.” A sneer. “He's just a mutt.”

Although the librarian still seemed a bit startled at these two people, out of all the students, showing up _together_ , she was put more or less at ease by their customary feuding demeanor. She made a point to express doubts that this was a worthy endeavor to spend time on, but eventually capitulated and showed them to a shelf situated in a dusty, more-or-less unused corner of the library. “The books are self-updating, and rather fragile.” She warned, before returning to the desk.

“So are you going to tell me what you're searching for?” Draco asked, idly picking one of the first 'M' volumes off the shelf and flipping through, looking for his last name.

Harry motioned him closer. “I'm searching for . . . something. If you find it, I'm sure you'll figure it out. You're pretty intelligent most of the time.”

* * *

“Why are you doing this with me? Why not with Granger or Weasley?”

“Do you want the short answer or the long one? I'm doing this because Hermione and Ron are so wrapped up in each other just now that, though they love me dearly, they'd probably be terribly unhappy if I tried to separate them or distract them from each other.”

“That's why not them. But why me? I still loathe you, you know.”

Harry turned his head from where he was flipping through one of the books, trying to figure out if his mother had ever had any wizarding blood. “Do you?” He asked quietly. “I don't know, to tell you the truth. Because you were there. Because you were willing to take my hand. Because I think you're as curious about this as I am, despite our previous animosity.”

A sigh. “Because I can't help but trust you, not any more. Not now that you look so much like . . . him.”

“Him?”

A hooded glare. “If you tell this to _anyone_ , I will torture you so dreadfully that you will be _begging_ me to cast the Cruciatus on you. I mean it.” Draco gulped. “Him. Lucia-Harry Evans' brother.”

“I never met him, but I dreamed of him and the other Harry. He looked . . . you two looked more alike, once I saw his face, than Harry Evans and I do. For the month before coming back to Hogwarts, I dreamed about the two of them nearly every night, and I thought they were nothing more than a dream.”

“And then Evans appeared yesterday.” Draco breathed. “Whoa. That must have been seriously weird.” He paused, knowing that he wouldn't like the answer, but finally found he could not restrain himself. “And . . . her brother?”

“Her father is a Death Eater.” Harry said abruptly. The black band around his irises seemed to have widened. Draco blinked at this seeming non sequitur. A chill ran down his spine. In what other ways were he and his doppelganger the same? “Sunday night, after spending the summer away, he returned home.”

“He had found out over the summer that . . . that she had thrown her lot in with the side of the Light.” Draco got the feeling that there was more to the tale than that, but he knew better than to ask. “When he came back, he was prepared to kill her.”

“His own daughter?!” Draco yelped. It was unbelievable.

“She was adopted. But yes, his own daughter.” Harry's voice grew more and more monotonous, his eyes colder. “He used the Killing Curse on her.” A lengthy pause, as Draco's eyes widened impossibly, “And her brother jumped in the way.”

“Surely . . .” Draco's voice was no more than a whisper. He swallowed. “A person can stop casting the Killing Curse, turn it away from the target. Surely he stopped in time . . .?”

“He laughed. Coldly. His son, his heir, once it was proven that he was no longer loyal to his father and the ideals his father espoused, meant less than nothing to him. In fact, I think he found his son's death rather useful. After all, it hurt Lucia quite deeply.”

“My father would never do that . . .” Draco whispered, trying hard to pretend that his voice didn't sound like he was trying to convince himself. His father wasn't like the father of his doppelganger. His father would never do that. Not to him. His head shot up when, belatedly, he realized what he had just admitted.

“I already know.” Harry said calmly in the face of that wild-eyed look. “Interesting, these coincidences, is it not?”

“How?” He croaked, surprised. He knew of the reputation his father . . . face it, his entire family . . . had, but Harry had said that as if he had had proof. Surely his father would not have been so careless . . .

“Oh, I'd suspected for quite a long time.” Harry said casually. “Since second year at least. But I didn't know for sure until the Third Task last year.” Inwardly, he flinched, at the mention of that disastrous event. “Your father was there, you know. Licking Voldemort's newly reborn boots just like the rest of the Death Eater scum.”

“Of course, when I returned, Fudge refused to believe me.” Draco snorted at the mention of the incompetent and blind Minister of Magic, and Harry smiled approvingly. “Dumbledore, of course, already knew.”

“What doesn't he?” Draco sighed.

“Indeed.” Now Harry sounded amused. “Just in case you were curious, your fathers looked identical as well.”

“My father would _not_ do that to me.” Draco only just barely refrained from yelling, remembering just in time that this was a library.

Harry's eyes had returned mostly to normal, the black now just a very thin edge along the rim of his irises. “I truly hope so, Draco. For your sake.”

* * *

“Potter, look at this!” Draco shoved the book toward the black-haired boy, an insanely gleeful grin on his face. “You and Severus, you're like long-lost cousins.”

“I'd hate to see how he treats the rest of the family, then.” Harry grumbled sourly, looking at the page Draco had pointed out. There it was. Jeanne Potter, a girl with four brothers who had all been married and had children that carried on the Potter name, had married Octavius Snape, about seventeen generations back. Thank goodness, that was the only connection.

“Ooh, do that again.” Draco breathed, eyes wide. “You look just like Severus when you do that.”

Glare. “Do what?” Harry ground out slowly.

“Act all snarky.” The blond boy grinned.

Harry turned back to his book. Why was Malfoy in such a happy mood all of a sudden, anyway?

Draco had to remind himself that it was not fitting for a young man-especially a scion of such an esteemed family-to giggle. He'd be able to tease Potter for _ages_ with this information!

* * *

“I found it.” Harry sounded unbearably smug.

“Found what? What you were looking for? Would you let me in on the secret now?” Draco's voice was sharply irritated.

“No. But I'm well on my way now. I've finally found my mother's family.”

“Potter, your mother was a mudblood.”

“Malfoy, don't you dare ever use that word in relation to my mother ever again. And no, she wasn't. Here. Proof.” Harry shoved the book over.

Indeed, it seemed that Lily Potter's maternal great-grandmother had been a Squib who married into and lived the life of a Muggle.

“Potter. Look at your father's name. It's doing something . . . weird.”

Harry snatched the book back. There, connected to the name Lily Evans by a straight line, James Potter seemed to be blurring into and out of focus. The name below the two of them, on the other hand-Harry Potter-remained perfectly steady. It seemed almost as if the book was trying and failing to replace James Potter with another name.

But for the life of him, Harry could not tell what that other name was.

* * *

“Holy!” Draco's voice was unsteady. “Potter. You're right. I do believe I do know what you were searching for now.”

“And?” His eyes, Slytherin green, were eerily intent.

Draco placed the book on the desk. “That is, I think that being of direct descent from both Gryffindor and Slytherin _(though God only knows how_ that _particular combination happened)_ qualifies.”

“Try all four.” Harry's voice seemed unusually subdued as he placed the book that contained the magical side of his mother's family on the desk beside the Potter book.

His eyes raised to meet Draco's. “So now I know.”

“Now all I want to know is . . . why?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Jamie is powerful. No, I'm not going to be so incredibly cliche as to make him the Heir to all four founders. I'm just going to be a little cliche.
> 
> I'm sure you've all figured out by now what name 'James Potter' was trying to change in to. Poor Harry(s) won't for a while yet, though. *grin*
> 
> 14 September 2002


	5. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me @ 2002!me: Just admit that everyone is very OOC and you like it better that way. :D
> 
> ==
> 
> Ah, finished at last! Sorry for the wait.
> 
> No, not the story, of course! Just the chapter. The story will continue on for a looonnngggg time. I mean, the most interesting part doesn't even start happening until Halloween or so . . .
> 
> Oops. I should'na said that. *waves hand in mystical movement* You did not just hear that. Er . . . read it . . . you know what I mean.
> 
> Please please please tell me if you think I'm pulling Draco and/or Sev's feelings towards Jamie more toward the benevolent spectrum too too fast . . . I'm trying hard to keep them in character.
> 
> Harry & Co. belong to J. K. Rowling. Personally, I'm just as glad. After all, if I owned them, I'd have to start doing respectable things with them. And I'd have to cut down on reading fanfiction and start spending most of my time writing instead. What, you say I should do that anyway? ^_^;;
> 
> Severitus' Challenge belongs to, you guessed it, Severitus. Hasn't really made itself too evident as of yet, but we'll get there eventually.

After careful consideration, Harry had decided not to tell anyone else of the information he and Draco had uncovered. Except Lucia, of course-she had a right to know, since she was also Harry Potter and, presumably, also the child of James Potter and Lily Evans-Potter. He was, however, quite comfortable with the thought of keeping the rest of his friends and acquaintances (and, for that matter, outright strangers) in the dark. He wasn't particularly enamoured of the idea of them seeing him as any _more_ 'special' than they already did.

Now that he had the information, though, he had no idea what to do with it. He was descended from all four founders. All right, so what did that mean? It could, he supposed, mean that he was the heir to one of them.

Or perhaps, he had the possibility within him to be the heir to more than just one; that he'd have a choice-which _could_ explain why it seemed that Dumbledore had tried so hard to get him into Gryffindor. It was possible that the Headmaster had hoped that, if he was in Gryffindor, he would turn out to be that man's heir.

Then again, the only other heir he could possibly see himself being was Slytherin's . . . and that spot was already taken by Voldemort, was it not?

He turned over in bed, shifting his blank gaze toward the curtains instead of, as previously, toward the ceiling. So, what conclusions could he draw from all this?

Obviously, he should see if there was any information on the heirs to each of the four houses. _And that means,_ Harry informed himself, using his best Hermione imitation, _a trip to the library._

His eyes closed. Despite the fact that the room seemed warmer than usual-almost uncomfortably so, in fact-he knew that sleep would come as soon as he stopped trying to hold it away.

_Tomorrow._

* * *

Harry stumbled out of the Charms classroom, holding up and being held up by Lucia, both his abdomen and his entire lower face aching. “What is this, Pick-On-Harry Day?” He gasped.

“I suppose so.” Lucia was hardly in any better condition. “I must admit, though, I never thought that I would ever meet _anyone_ as ticklish as I am.”

“Obviously neither had the rest of our classmates.” Harry replied wryly.

They had learned the Tickle Charm in Charms that morning. When turned loose to practice on each other, the rest of the fifth-year Gryffindors had quickly found that, while on most of the others the charm would result in twitches and embarrassed giggles, on the Harrys it would send them to the ground in paroxysms in short order.

Harry took quick stock of himself. “I bruised my left elbow again, and I bashed my right leg against a desk. There'll probably be a nice large bruise there in a day or two. How about you?”

“I think I landed on my hip wrong at one point, no more than that, though.” Lucia cast a searching look at her twin. “So it's been happening to you, too? All the accidents?”

“Since my birthday-the day I dreamed of you for the first time.” He replied quietly. He chuckled suddenly. “At first, I wondered if it was all some elaborate plot of Voldemort's. Especially after I fell down the stairs for, oh, about the fourth time.”

“You fell down an entire flight of stairs?” Lucia sounded mildly impressed. “I admit I haven't gone quite that far yet. I've been able to keep my accident proneness under control for the most part-probably because of the extra training my other years in Survival. Balance and awareness of our surroundings was very important at times.”

She frowned. “Look, I'm sorry you got stuck with oni-with Malfoy. We never did this when I took it.” She tilted her head. “I've been meaning to ask, how did it go? It certainly took you long enough that Fred was about to start taking bets on whose dead body would be dragged out first.”

Grin. “I bet Angelina shot _that_ idea down really quickly.”

Matching grin. “Better than that. Poor little Freddy found himself on the receiving end of glares from not only Angelina, but also Parvati, Cho, myself, and even George. He shut up _quite_ fast.”

“I can't imagine why.” Harry murmured, eyes dancing and almost wholly green. “Well, after insulting each other on any and every point possible, we finally . . . wore down, I guess, and agreed to a truce. I'm beginning to think that he may be more like your oniisan than I gave him credit for.”

“You missed supper. Dare I hope you got _something_ from the kitchens?”

Harry paused. Considered. “No, I don't believe I did. Completely slipped my mind. But that reminds me, Lucia . . . I found out something last night. Something that may or may not be important.”

“We . . . that is, I, and by extrapolation you as well . . . are descendants of all four Founders. _That_ is why we survived the Killing Curse at fifteen months old.”

“And . . .”

“Dumbledore lied to me. He purposefully manipulated events to make certain that I got placed in Gryffindor.” Really, after considering events, he couldn't help but admire the man's cunning. Things had, after all, worked out exactly as the Headmaster wished-as far as his Sorting was concerned, at least.

“The Headmaster wouldn't do that.” Lucia stepped away, and her mouth firmed with a determination that approached anger. For the first time, Harry saw for himself the expansion of the black in the eyes that were so like his own, as the black rims swelled to swallow up more than half of the green. “He's not like that, Jamie. You must just be misinterpreting his actions or something.”

“Oh, I'm quite sure. It was a rather impressive manipulation, I admit-after all, I didn't even discover that I _had_ been manipulated until just last night. Still . . .”

Lucia held her hand up. “I refuse to listen to you malign the Headmaster anymore. Come talk to me again when you've regained your senses. Honestly, Jamie . . . I'm beginning to think that Malfoy is rubbing off on you.” She turned and walked away.

Malfoy. Not her oniisan, but Malfoy. Harry found that word choice . . . interesting, to say the least. It showed that she was learning to separate the two in her mind, which was most definitely a good thing . . . but he feared it was at the expense of casting Malfoy as (dare he admit that such a thing was possible?) worse than reality.

He shook his head. Honestly, indeed. She ought to know that he didn't lie, that he would _not_ lie to her especially, and _certainly_ not about anything as important as this.

Turning himself, he walked off. Perhaps back at Gryffindor Tower he could find some more _reasonable_ people to talk to. First, though, he needed to cool off.

* * *

“Hermione, can you help me with my Herbology homework? That essay that's due next Monday . . .”

“I'm not going to let you copy me . . .” She returned without a thought, most of her intellect still focused on her Ancient Runes assignment.

“That's not what I asked.” Ron flared. “All I wanted to know is if you could answer a few simple questions for me, or direct me toward someplace that I can find the answer myself. Just because you're smarter than me doesn't necessarily mean that I don't have a brain myself!”

“That's hardly evident, considering how often you use it.” Hermione sniped back. She _hated_ it when people interrupted her when she was in the middle of something. “We have OWLs this year, so I suggest you learn to find things for yourself, since you obviously haven't yet. Even _Harry_ spends more time in the library than you.”

“So I'm not a know-it-all brainiac! At least I know more than just books! Honestly, Hermione, do you even _have_ a life?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” She had abandoned her work for the nonce and now stood over Ron, glaring. “And I like my life just fine, thank you, unlike _certain_ people I know who seem to have inferiority complexes that make them incapable of even carrying on coherent interactions with other people.”

“And there you go again with the big words!” Ron, too, stood. Although he was several inches taller at the very least, the two of them managed to preserve the illusion of standing nose to nose, eye to eye. “We all _know_ that you're the most intelligent person to hit Hogwarts since Rowena Ravenclaw herself! Must you constantly shove it in my face?”

“Oh, Ron, I'm so _sorry_ ,” she sneered. “For actually being proud of the fact that I have a brain. I know you like your girls all looks and no substance, but I have a news flash for you-we're not all like that.”

He threw his hands up in the air. “That's not what I meant at all! You're just jumping to conclusions the way you always do.”

“Maybe I wouldn't jump to them so quickly if you didn't make them so easy to be jumped at.” Hermione suggested, all false sweetness.

“How cute, a lovers' spat.” The two started, turning to face Ginny. They had been unaware that anyone else was in the common room. The red-haired girl rolled her eyes. “Honestly. When will the two of you grow up?” She walked on past and up the stairs to her dorm room.

Ron and Hermione silently watched the youngest Weasley's departure before, as one, sinking to the couch. Neither quite had the energy or attention available to contest her calling them 'lovers'. They had both gotten too used to the little hinting comments to pay them much attention anymore; this did not, however, mean that they had lost any of their annoyance factor.

“What were we arguing about again?” Ron asked, sounding the slightest bit lost. “Oh, right. You accused me of intent to plagiarize when all I wanted to do was ask a simple question.” He concluded, a certain amount of his previous anger reentering his voice.

Hermione sighed. “I really didn't necessarily mean it quite that harshly. I was just concentrating, and you especially ought to know by now how I get when I concentrate.”

“Well, I suppose I'm sorry too.” Ron gazed into the fire. “It was mean of me to say all that about your being a know-it-all and rubbing it in our faces all the time. Because you really don't all that much.” He sighed. “What a stupid argument all around. Why _do_ we argue so much anyway? I mean, we're friends, right? And friends don't argue.” He winced as his traitorous mind dredged up memories of the Triwizard Tournament the previous year. “. . . all that much.”

“I think.” Hermione had a studious, thoughtful look on her face. “I think that our arguments are a plot contrivance.”

“A what?” Certain terms-such as the aforementioned 'plagiarism'-had over time leaked into Ron's vocabulary-he wasn't stupid, after all, so much as unmotivated-but there were many times when he still had no idea what Hermione was talking about. This was one of them.

“A plot contrivance.” Hermione looked proud of herself. “Imagine, for a moment, that our lives were all part of this story. Written in a book, or made into a movie.”

“Come on. Who would be the main character? The villain? Where's the plot?” Ron, now that he understood, was highly skeptical.

“Harry, of course, and You-Know-Who. And the plot is the 'epic confrontations' between the two of them.” Hermione replied.

Ron considered. “You know . . . that makes a disturbing amount of sense. So anyway, you were saying, plot contrivance?”

“Yes. It's a set character action or scene that happens when there's nothing much interesting going on with the rest of the story.”

“I think I should be insulted.” Ron frowned.

“Oh, come on. It's not like we're really just a story. I was just throwing out a theory.” Hermione grinned. “Besides, even if this were just a story, there's no reason for you to be insulted. The Hero's Trusty Sidekick is a quite respectable position, after all.”

Ron snorted. “And that's all I am. A follower. Not as smart as you, not as special as Harry, not as interesting as the twins, not as _perfect_ as Percy . . .”

“. . . an even worse Seeker than Draco Malfoy . . .” A new, familiar voice interrupted.

“. . . an even worse Seeker than Malfoy . . .” Ron continued, then turned and glared.

Harry's face grinned at him. Then he noticed the scar. _Oh. It's the other one._

“And what do you know?” He asked, eyes narrowed. “I wouldn't want to be Seeker anyway. I'd much rather be Chaser.”

Evans' grin widened. “Just playing with you.” She ruffled his hair and sauntered off in the same direction as Ginny Weasley had before. At the stairs, though, she stopped and turned. “Draco Malfoy's probably a better Chaser than you, too.” Before he could retort in any way, she blew them a sardonic kiss and ascended out of sight.

“That girl creeps me out.” Ron shivered. “She's just too . . . Harry. Only not.”

Hermione nodded. “I get the feeling that she knows more than she's telling. Did you notice how she _knew_ how to get around, first off? She shouldn't be so familiar with Hogwarts, not after living in Japan for fourteen years.”

“She doesn't have an accent either.” Ron pointed out. “You'd think that, after living there for so long, she'd _sound_ Japanese . . . or foreign, at least. But she doesn't.” He frowned. “And . . . did you see her in Herbology on Monday? She looked like she was trying to glare holes through the back of my head. And I'd never met her before!”

“She has backed down somewhat, though.” Hermione pointed out.

“Did you notice that both she and Harry fell behind after class? I'll bet that Harry talked to her and told her to tone it down.”

Hermione blinked. “No, in fact, I hadn't noticed that. You've been really keeping an eye on her, haven't you?”

Ron nodded. “Something just feels . . . off. I'd say she was trying to steal Harry's friendship from us, except for the fact that he had already pretty much drifted away even before she appeared.” He tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Harry has changed, and I think it goes deeper than just his new interest in academia.” He elbowed Hermione gently. “After all, _you_ manage to be a know-it-all and still be normal at the same time.”

“Did you know that he thought the Potions summer homework easy?” Hermione asked suddenly. “When he realized that I hadn't, he tried to gloss it over as a joke-trying to distract me-but I think he was telling the truth.” Hermione frowned. “It was doable, but still fairly challenging. . . . And I think-although I can't be sure-that he did his Potions essay _before_ he started picking up all that extra knowledge. Like _that_ , it should have been pretty near impossible.” She nodded. “There's definitely something different about Harry. At times, I get this feeling . . . like we've lost him.”

Ron nodded. “And I can't help but feel like it's somehow partly my fault. That, if I had only paid more attention to him these past two weeks while he was at the Burrow, he might not be so . . . distant.”

“I think it was a trend that started before he came to the Burrow.” Hermione batted him lightly on the arm. “We may have had something to do with it, but I think this is mostly just Harry. Maybe he's just growing up, like the rest of us.”

Ron sighed. “But why does growing up have to mean that he's growing _away_ from us? Would you promise me something, 'Mione? Promise me that you won't leave me too?”

Hermione smiled shyly. “Only if you're willing to promise me the same thing. Best friends forever?”

They shook on it.

“Hi guys.” Harry came in, threw himself down into a nearby chair, and closed his eyes. “Ah. Much better.”

“What's wrong?”

Harry made a noise of frustration. “Lucia is just being bloody annoying. You'd think she'd _trust_ me . . .” He looked up, locked eyes with Ron and Hermione, then shook his head. “Never mind.”

“What is it?” Hermione asked. “Is there some way we can help?” She and Ron exchanged a look. They may have grown away from Harry, and perhaps that couldn't be helped . . . but they were still his friends, damn it!

“I was just telling Lucia some . . .” he hesitated “. . . private . . . information that I had found out about her family. In the process, I let her know something else I just recently figured out-that the Headmaster lied to and manipulated us. She just completely blew it all out of proportion . . .” He stopped when he noticed their glazed over eyes.

Abruptly, Hermione burst out laughing. “Oh, Harry, that's better than the one about the summer Potions homework being easy! Really, Dumbledore, lie?”

“You haven't taken anything . . . funny . . . recently, have you?” Ron asked cautiously.

Harry stood. “That's it! Don't believe me if you don't want to. I really don't care.” He stalked upstairs and a door could be heard slamming. A couple of minutes later, he stalked back through, muttering something on his way out through the portrait.

Ron looked at Hermione. Hermione looked at Ron. Then, in unison,

“Did he _really_ just say 'bloody Gryffindors'?!”

* * *

He had already flipped through most of the other records; most held little to nothing interesting. In many cases, despite having attended the same school for quite some time, the two people in each pair knew little to nothing of each other except-in the case of George Weasley especially-perhaps by reputation.

By far the most interesting up until now had been Evans and Chang. They had begun unaccountably nervous around each other, most likely on Evans' part because of her memories and on Chang's part because of Evans' uncanny resemblance to Potter. Yet it was Potter that eventually got them started talking, as they shared views on the boy who, it seemed, had had quite an impact on both their lives.

But now . . . now came what was practically guaranteed to be the most interesting of them all. Potter and Malfoy.

It started out in a fairly predictable fashion, although he was a bit surprised by a few of the insults they had chosen. Surely . . . he hadn't learned some of those words until he was half again their age, at least.

Engrossed as he was, he took little note of the door sliding open. It was, perhaps, a bit early-there was an hour yet before class began-but if a student chose to show up this early, that was his or her business. Without looking up, he made a private bet on it being one of the Ravenclaws.

Reading the conversation he began to admit, to himself, just a little bit, that perhaps Potter wasn't quite as much of a spoiled brat as he had always assumed him to be. Although with as intelligent and well-read of a friend he had in Miss Granger, he was rather surprised that the Boy-Who-Lived hadn't figured out that he was something special-even Snape, as much as he would have liked to, couldn't deny that-before now.

Still, that _Dumbledore_ had been the one to mislead the boy so drastically . . . he made a mental note to do a little something mildly nasty to Hagrid. All Dark wizards coming from Slytherin, indeed. He would admit to 'most', but trying to claim 'all'-even without the solid proof of Pettigrew or Black, whichever of the two a person believed to have committed the crime Black had been arrested for-was a bit of a stretch. He snorted.

"So. Those are the written transcripts of the conversations we held last period, I assume."

Snape's head shot up. The unexpectedness of the comment, paired with its correctness and the depth of his concentration on Potter and Draco's conversation, conspired to make him lose-although only momentarily, mind you-his composure and his customary guard upon his tongue. "How did you . . .?" Of course, it didn't help that the speaker had _not_ been one of the Ravenclaws, but the young Potter boy himself.

The smirk on the boy's face as he gazed at his teacher looked at once oddly familiar and not at all like James Potter. "I didn't. Until you just confirmed my guess, that is. But I was pretty sure-you had to have had _some_ way of keeping tabs on us. Despite your demeanor, I doubt you would really let two of your students kill each other-not on your watch at least."

He sat up, tucking unruly hair once more behind his ear. "So, have you reached mine and Malfoy's yet?"

Snape glared at the boy repressively. Potter seemed to be trying to make Snape regret that he had ever even considered the idea that the boy could be anything less than repulsively annoying. "Do you think I would tell you . . . _either_ way?"

A small shrug. "It was worth a try."

* * *

Harry, knowing that he would get little to nothing more out of his Potions instructor even if he continued to press, turned his attention back to the Herbology assignment he had brought up here to work on. If that truly was his and Malfoy's transcript, Snape would soon reach-or would already have reached-the part in which he made a few . . . discoveries. When he got there, it would only be a matter of time before he confronted Harry about his words-it was unlikely that even the frigid Potions Master would be able to contain his curiosity indefinitely.

That, considering that Snape had displayed what seemed to be complete and total loyalty to the Headmaster . . . in recompense for being allowed a second chance, perhaps? . . . might prove to be an _interesting_ scene.

It didn't take long, although the starting point was somewhat different than he had expected. “So, Potter . . . care to enlighten me as to what this brilliant idea of your was?”

Harry leaned back, gazing at his professor with hooded eyes. “It is my postulation that Dumbledore wanted me placed in Gryffindor because he believed that I had it within me to become Gryffindor's Heir-the perfect person to strike down Slytherin's Heir, as Voldemort claims to be.”

“And . . .” Snape drew the word out, pushing down the surprise. _Gryffindor's Heir?! Either he's suffering from even greater delusions of grandeur than I thought, or . . . but it seems that he doesn't agree with what he assesses Dumbledore to be thinking. I wonder why? Surely it is every boy's wish to be capable of wielding as much power as the Heir to Gryffindor could. “_. . . you obviously don't believe that. Why?”

Harry folded his hands, looked down at them for a moment, then vaulted to his feet, beginning to pace. “Let me put it this way. Lucia was raised by the Malfoys, she's a werewolf-a 'Dark creature'-and she's _still_ more of a Gryffindor than I am.” He put his hand over his heart. “Here . . . I like to think that here, I'm still something of a Gryffindor. But here?” Now he pointed to his head.

“Something has changed within me. I'm not sure as to exactly what triggered the change, why it happened, or even exactly what this change was. But I'm not pure Gryffindor anymore. I've grown up, out of that phase-and a phase is all it was.”

He shook his head. “I suppose, from my words there on paper, that you think I'm angry at Dumbledore for what I perceive as a betrayal. I was, but now I find that I admire him for it.” A wry grin. “I admire him for figuring out his goal, then refusing to let such small things as morals and 'absolute truth' stand in his way. A rather Slytherin trait, don't you think? So what does that make me, for admiring him for it?”

Snape cocked an eyebrow. “Rather more open-minded than three-quarters of the rest of the Hogwarts-taught English population.” Dryly. “And, I agree, decidedly un-Gryffindor. How could you possibly sympathize with The Enemy?”

Harry raised his own eyebrow, in an exact mirror image of his teacher's action. “Perhaps because . . . as I think you would agree . . . the only _true_ enemy is Voldemort.” His gaze lingered disturbingly long on Snape's covered left arm before moving slowly to his face. “I'd say that, much like Death Eaters and just about any other Faceless Mass of Evil in history . . . Slytherins, once I take time to look, will be just people, too.”

Narrowed eyes. “Potter. You can't judge Death Eaters solely by what you know of me. There are many people who joined Voldemort because they are addicted to the power he offers, people who truly enjoy causing pain to others.”

“I don't like you all that much.” Harry replied obliquely. “I never have. But I _have_ come to respect you. If someone such as you could join them, it only proves my point that not _all_ are bad. I'm not trying to claim that all or even most of them have any good left in their hearts-if, that is, they had any good within them to begin with. Pseudo-Gryffindor that I am, even I'm not that stupid. But where there's one, there might be others . . . others who were not as brave as you, or who had more pressing reasons to remain where they were.”

This time, his gaze lowered to his own left arm, his irises disturbingly almost entirely black. “If I were given the choice between seeing all my loved ones destroyed and joining Voldemort, I _know_ which one I'd choose. So how can I blame people who may very well have been given that precise choice?”

His eyes closed, and he hung his head, defeated. “I would have willingly died in Cedric's place.” He whispered. “I knew it. I knew Voldemort knew it. That's why Cedric died; Voldemort knew his death would cause me pain.”

“Voldemort is rather adept at seeking out a person's weak spots.” Snape agreed quietly. He still remembered his own initiation . . . _so clearly_ . . . and even moreso the events that had led up to it. “It's one of the reasons he has gotten as far as he has.”

“So what do you do when he finds yours? How do you circumvent him?”

A bitter twist to his lips. “It depends. You can teach yourself _not_ to care . . . or have the choice taken from you.”

Silence fell. Considering Snape's words, Harry finally nodded, once, slowly. The silence remained, comfortable between the two, and it never even occurred to either of them to turn their attention toward something else.

“Professor . . .? Did Lucia mention to you what your relationship to her was, back in your world?”

Snape raised an eyebrow at the seemingly abrupt subject change. “She did.”

The black-haired boy bit his lip. “Well, I was wondering . . . it had occurred to me that I'd kind of like to know an adult I could talk to like that, and I was wondering if you . . .”

“If I am not mistaken, you already have a godfather, Potter. Although I can sympathize with your wish to avoid talking to him.” Dry and sarcastic, archetypical Snape.

The boy glared. “Professor Snape, I would greatly appreciate it if you were to refrain from insulting my godfather while I can hear you. I know you have that stupid grudge going; you don't have to constantly shove it in my face.” With the slur on his godfather, he had lost all evidence of nervousness. “There is, however, a problem with going to him on this-the rest of the wizarding world still believes he's guilty of a crime he did not commit. Thus, if I contact him too often, I risk compromising his position to the authorities in question.”

Abruptly glacial. “I'm sure you would love to see him slammed back into Azkaban, but I do not agree in the least, and I won't let him be caught because of me.”

“It may be hard for you to believe this, Potter, but on the topic of the dementors, I fully agree with the Headmaster. I would not wish Azkaban on even my worst enemy.”

“Good to know.” Potter's voice, exhibiting a certain amount of dryness of its own. “My point is, the adult in question would need to be relatively easily accessible, and the fact is that my godfather is not.” He shrugged. “Forget it. I don't see why I even bothered to try.” A pause. “Actually, Remus is still around . . .”

“Perhaps you thought of me because you knew that the werewolf, upright Gryffindor that he is, would never understand how you could _ever_ possibly even _consider_ turn to Voldemort?” Snape asked dryly. Harry froze. “Oh, grow up, boy. Who would I tell? And why? And even if I bothered to try to tell, do you honestly think anyone would believe me?”

He smirked. “If only because I'm sure you'll regret having made the offer,” Potter was giving him a look that said that he wasn't sure he wasn't regretting it already, “. . . I'll at least consider it.”

* * *

Draco Malfoy, despite the restrictions that would be placed on him for taking this Survival class, remained firm in his feeling that it was the correct thing to do. It might come as something of a surprise-even to some of his fellow Slytherins-but he did not let his father do _all_ his thinking for him.

Just, he admitted ruefully to himself-though he'd _never_ admit it to anyone else-most of it. But the decision to take this class had been his alone-and while he had only had the one class period so far, he tended to think that he had made the correct decision.

Even if he had ended up paired with Potter, of all people.

He put his hand against the dimly glowing plate, stated his password, and entered the room. Fifteen minutes early. And stopped, trying to process the sight before him. Snape at his desk and Potter sitting on the floor. Okay, that wasn't _too_ off the wall yet. What was? The fact that they weren't actively snarling at each other.

“. . . I'll at least think about it.” Snape had just finished saying.

The Boy-Who-Lived's face, which had held an expression comfortingly at least approximating its usual disgust, softened into, of all insane things, a smile. “Thank you, Professor. That's all I ask.”

Draco decided to interrupt before the scene had fully processed-otherwise, he would have been in great danger of fainting or doing something similarly undignified. “Potter . . . Professor Snape . . . do my eyes deceive me or are the two of you acting in an almost-dare I say it?-congenial manner toward one another?” He drawled.

Potter leaned back on his hands and smirked-a disturbingly Snape-like smirk, at that-before replying. “Oh, I don't know. Stranger things have happened. After all, my own relationship with you can now be termed-loosely, I must admit-as congenial as well.” He paused. “Oh, stop standing there and come on inside, Malfoy. You're blocking the doorway.”

“Better me than you. At least this way anyone approaching won't turn and run screaming if they catch sight of me.” Draco riposted, still coming on all the way inside despite that. He waved one hand dramatically in front of his nose. “When _was_ the last time you had a bath, anyway?”

Harry had a deeply thoughtful look on his face. “When I was about three, I think.” He laughed at the horrified looks on both the Slytherins' faces. It seemed even Snape was more fastidious than he looked. “Now a shower, on the other hand . . . I had one last night.” He raised an eyebrow, one hand raising to fan out his admittedly somewhat greasy-looking hair. “At least this is natural. Tell me, how many pounds of hair gel do you pour on your head every morning?”

Snape considered interrupting. It wouldn't do for them to still be arguing when class started, after all. Then again, strangely enough, they actually seemed to be enjoying it. With a mental shrug, he decided to leave well enough alone. It was, after all, rather amusing to watch.

In a staggering reversal that Snape wasn't sure even the two boys understood, suddenly the two had turned to discussing schoolwork. It was quite an intellectual conversation, at that, one that he rather thought most students would have trouble following, despite the frequent breaks for insults to the intelligence (or lack thereof) of each other.

The subject finally found its way to Potions, a class that neither had had yet this year but that both seemed equally interested in. When his opinion was solicited to break up an argument, he found himself interceding on Potter's side, oddly enough . . . perhaps even odder, the fact that he found that he really didn't mind all that much. Certainly not as much as he should have.

If anyone had told him, even a month ago, that he would be agreeing with Potter about _anything_ -with the possible exception of the merits of a certain Dark Lord both were somewhat acquainted with-he would have suggested that that person enroll themselves in St. Mungos. Quickly. Before they started having less fantastic and more dangerous delusions.

Then again, people change. And Potter definitely seemed to have changed more than his fair share over the past summer. So he continued on, in turn conversing and arguing amicably with the two fifth-year students.

And that was how the rest of the students, coming in for class, found them.

* * *

“From now on, Tuesday classes will generally be Charms based, Thursday Potions, and Wednesdays will concentrate on the more physical aspect of your training.” Snape was trying his hardest to ignore the fact that most of the class had walked in just as he had been grudgingly admitting that, for a moron and a Gryffindor (wasn't that somehow redundant?), Potter not only actually had a brain, but was fairly adept at using it.

He had to admit, though, that the sight of all those dropped jaws and wide eyes was enough to appeal to a far more vestigial sense of humor than even he possessed. It took a stern effort to keep his lips from twitching, but he had managed. Somehow.

“It is a little-known fact that Hogwarts has an armory of its own of strictly Muggle weaponry.” He had again taken up his habit of pacing the front of the classroom. “I will _not_ be showing you where it is; I have, however, managed to negotiate the castle into allowing us access to it through this room on Wednesdays and by request otherwise.”

Pace. “A simple spell has been put on each and every weapon in the armory that will intensify the feelings of your natural inclinations as well as . . . other . . . effects. What this means, essentially, is that you will be quite powerfully attracted towards the weapon or weapons that you are most suited for. This is _not_ , necessarily, the weapon you think of as your 'favorite', or the one that you think is the 'coolest'. This is the weapon you will be best suited to actually _using_ , in an actual combat situation.”

A knock sounded at the door. Snape looked even more bad-tempered than usual as he stalked over and pulled it open.

All the students, of course, craned their necks to see who was at the door. Harry, being near the front, had one of the best views. A girl with long red hair, identified after no more than a moment as the youngest of the Weasley clan, stood to the side of Professor McGonagall. Harry wondered what Ginny was doing there?

After a moment of hushed argument between the two teachers in which Ginny looked like she was trying very hard to disappear, Snape evidently capitulated, as Professor McGonagall turned and left, alone. “It seems,” Snape paused, looking from Ginny to the rest of the class, a familiar sour look on his face, “that we have a new student.”

From the wall, a small golden-yellow globe broke away. For the first time, Harry noticed that the wall was studded with small colored hemispheres, looking almost like precious gems with the way they caught the light. The globe drifted across the room, the target of all eyes, until it finally stopped, hovering over and then dropping into Ginny's unconsciously outstretched hands.

Parvati raised her hand. “Um, Professor Snape? That globe . . . it's the same color as mine was yesterday, mine and Justin's.”

Snape nodded. “Very well. Miss Weasley, you are now paired with Miss Patil and Mr. Finch-Fletchly. Talk to them to get caught up on current events.” Ginny went and sat down, and as quickly as that, Snape completely dismissed both the interruption Ginny had caused and the girl herself.

He walked over to the back wall, students clustering behind him, and, finding a particular space peculiarly free of the little gem/globe studs, knocked twice on the stretch of bare wall. Immediately, as if pushed away by some invisible force, the globes around that area shifted away and a large area of the wall-about right for a small to medium-sized doorway-simply . . . disappeared.

Stepping inside, the entire group was seized with an almost frantic need to be . . . somewhere else. Wherever it was that their weapons were currently.

In an amazingly short period of time, everyone had piled back out, oohing and aahing or suppressing feelings of superiority toward each others' weapons.

There was an amazing variety. Blaise, the other Slytherin, had gotten a set of four-pointed star-shaped shuriken. Harry had found himself attracted to a matched set of ever so slightly curved daggers, each with a scalloped edge that made the dagger look like it would hurt even more coming out than when it came in. Draco had also gotten a dagger, but only one, and one that was nearly twice as long as Harry's babies-almost long enough to qualify as a short sword.

The Hufflepuffs had all gotten blunt weapons of some sort: staves, gloves that looked like they had been reinforced to pack quite an additional punch, and, in Justin's case, a set of nunchaku. The Ravenclaws tended more towards weapons of the polearm variety: spears, naginata, and swallows. And the Gryffindors, to a person, had all gotten swords. The shape and size, of course, differed greatly, from the longswords of the Weasley twins and Angelina to the rapiers that Parvati and Ginny ended up with to Lucia's broadsword-a sword, moreover, that Harry was almost certain was identical in form to Gryffindor's.

Once everyone was situated, to a person they all turned to Snape. How was he going to manage to teach so many different weapons to so many different people, all at once? Snape merely smirked, clapped his hands together once, and uttered the words, “First lesson.”

Harry spiraled down into darkness.

* * *

Greyness all around, and fog. Then, a voice out of the darkness, one that spoke gently with a timbre unlike any voice he had ever had even passing acquaintance with before. It spoke of correct posture, of the correct way to hold his two new daggers; it spoke of the need for vigilance at all times, for one never knew from which direction the next attack would come.

Harry followed the instructions, brought into something resembling a trance by the murmuring voice, listening nonetheless and taking in everything that was said.

And so it continued, for what seemed like days. Yet he did not grow hungry, nor thirsty, nor tired although his body became quickly exhausted by these unfamiliar demands upon it.

So it continued, until the voice pronounced him done and he was released.

* * *

For some, they could have sworn days or months had passes. Others, mere hours. But all, by the time they surfaced, were sure more time had passed than the mere hour or so that both the clock and the relative height of the sun indicated.

Everyone shared the same dazed look, as if they had been tossed into a drier on the option 'spin dry' then strung out through a wringer. Even Lucia-who, Harry had assumed, had already known at least the basics in the weapon that had chosen her-seemed uncommonly exhausted.

“Very good.” Snape's tone was utterly unemotional. Still, it was greater praise than some of the students-even some of the seventh years-had ever received from the taciturn and unfairly prejudiced teacher. “Now. You have a short essay-say, about a foot and a half long-due, say, next Tuesday on what you think the purpose is of any spells that have been placed on these weapons.”

“You may not take the weapons outside of this classroom. You may, however, come here outside of class time in order to more closely examine your weapons.”

There was the expected grumbling about the essay assignment, but not quite as much as usual-only eighteen inches was, after all, rather lenient as far as Snape was concerned. Snape waited patiently (more or less) for the murmurs to die down. “Class dismissed.”

Harry grabbed his bag and stood almost immediately, though he swayed once he got to his feet. With care and not a little reluctance, he set down the two daggers. They would be here when he returned, after all. It wasn't like they were going anywhere.

He then headed toward the door. This class was interesting enough that his ordinary reaction would not, by any means, be to shoot for the outer world, desperate to get away.

But, the fact was, that exercise had taken from him a great deal of energy. He was _hungry_! From the rather pained looks on some of his classmates' faces, he got the idea that the feeling was mutual.

Despite his hurry, because of his reluctance to leave the daggers, he was still one of the last people to reach the door. Thus, not many people heard Snape when he called, “Potter.”

Harry turned, hoping that the growling in his stomach was not loud enough for Snape to hear. That would be embarrassing. “Yes?”

The Potions professor did not smile. Even his eyes did not. But his face softened, ever so slightly, into something a bit more benevolent than Harry was used to seeing. “My door is open.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Note/Belated Disclaimer: For anyone who wondered, yes, Jamie's daggers are slightly adapted versions of David Eddings' Ulgo knives from his Belgariad and Mallorean. (Don't worry, I don't think he has any plans to disembowel anyone, wrap their guts around a bush at the edge of a cliff, and throw them off to see if their guts stretch or snap. *giggle* Sorry, but that's one of my favorite parts! Go Beldin!) So their idea doesn't belong to me.
> 
> 6 October 2002


	6. Intentional Mishaps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day (*weak voice* er . . . three weeks?), another chapter.
> 
> I hate college apps.
> 
> Harry Potter does not belong to me. Girl!Harry (also known as Lucia) and Slytherin!Harry (also known as Jamie), however, do belong to me.
> 
> . . . And the tens of thousands of other fanfiction writers who have come up with and used those and similar ideas in their own fics. *sigh* At least most don't have both at once!
> 
> Severitus' Challenge doesn't belong to me either. But I'm indiscriminately borrowing it anyway. ^_^

Harry sat in one of the desks, slouched forward, chin resting on his folded hands. Another year, another DADA teacher. So it goes. Still, if this Mundugus Fletcher was the same one mentioned by Dumbledore at the end of the previous year as part of 'the old crowd', it might be interesting. He would have been friends with his parents, most likely-and if one thing about Harry had not changed, it would be that he _never_ grew tired of learning more about his parents.

That topic of musing dealt with to the extent it could be for the nonce, he just allowed his mind to drift. It being still rather early in the morning, with the light coming through the window greyish blue through the cloud cover, drifting was far easier than in certain other circumstances. Like a dog worrying at a bone, though, his mind soon returned to the previous day's events-particularly his disastrous conversation with Lucia.

Even thinking so briefly on it, he was surprised at the depths of negative emotion that thought inspired. Anger and sorrow came first and foremost. It had hurt him, he admitted to himself, very deeply, that Lucia had refused to believe him . . . _just like that_. Without even a doubt in her mind.

Perhaps because he trusted in her so deeply. He felt that he knew her, as well as he knew himself. She was, after all, Harry Potter. And if there was any person he trusted above all others, it would be himself. Because he knew who he was, to a certain extent what he was capable of, and what his motivations were for his actions.

Dreaming of her, he supposed he had always thought that they would have been identical in every way; that he would have been able to talk to her about anything because she would _understand_ , the way possibly no one else could. That he would be able to trust her as well as he trusted himself, because all the capabilities, the motivations, were the same.

Unfortunately, it hadn't turned out that way. He had underestimated the effect their differing lives had on them-despite superficial resemblance, they really were very different people. It was probably about time he realized that and stopped trying to fit her into his own mold. He was even beginning to doubt that all their differences were due to their upbringings. Surely, having been raised by the Malfoys, Lucia should have turned out like her brother, a Slytherin?

He remembered her comment that first night about the Sorting Hat. _Didn't even mention Slytherin._ Surely that indicated something, that even back in first year, despite having grown up with the Malfoys, her basic personality was such that she was _still_ more of a Gryffindor than Harry himself.

That, right there, was the whole problem. Harry's outlook on life had changed, exactly how significantly he was not yet sure. Still, one thing he _had_ figured out in the past few days back at Hogwarts: if not for his fame (of the sort) and the fact that the House seemed filled with Junior Death Eaters, he would actually be more comfortable in Slytherin now than he was in Gryffindor. And Lucia was pure Gryffindor, through and through.

Considering that, it was not so much of a surprise that she had refused to believe his tale of Dumbledore's manipulations. Gryffindors held a store of blind loyalty practically equal to that of the truest of Hufflepuffs, and if possible were even more fierce about defending those they believed in. He doubted he'd ever be able to convince her that Dumbledore had indeed lied to and manipulated him. Even if he had concrete proof, she would ignore the facts staring her in the face.

It occurred to him that Hagrid would not have picked her up from her parents' house and taken her shopping-even if Dumbledore had known at that point that she was Harry Potter, there would have been no excuse good enough to preclude suspicion on the part of Lucius Malfoy.

Then . . . had her Dumbledore known yet? He probably had by Christmas-otherwise, how would she have received the Invisibility Cloak, as he assumed she had done? There were too many of his adventures, after all, in which that cloak had been more or less necessary. But before she appeared, looking like a miniature version of James Potter with Lily's green eyes, had he known?

If he hadn't known, he wouldn't have tried to manipulate her away from Slytherin and into Gryffindor. If she hadn't known she was Harry Potter, she would not have asked him, at the end of their first year, why it was that Voldemort had wanted to kill them so badly, so he would have felt no need to lie and misdirect. In her case, she had been right.

Having determined that, he felt some small part of his animosity ease away. But . . . the largest part had nothing to do with the apparent truth of the matter. She hadn't trusted him. Bottom line, she had not trusted him to tell her the truth, even about something so potentially vitally important.

That was what had hurt the worst-because he _knew_ that he would never lie to her, and he had somehow expected her to know, too. Or at least to trust and believe. Would that have been so hard? Lifting his eyes, he gazed, unseeing, at the blackboard. _Fine. So be it. If she wants to be that way, there is hardly anything I can do to convince her otherwise._

And Ron and Hermione. They knew him; they ought to know him better than this by now. He pressed his forehead against crossed arms. _Is it just a terminal fault of Gryffindors? Must they be so blind, even to one of their number?_ He sighed, so quietly that even he could not hear it clearly.

Raising his head once again, his mouth firmed with determination. _Fine. At least I still have Draco and Snape._ And how funny, to think that the two people he had liked least of all in his past four years at Hogwarts were now perhaps the two people who knew him best.

Ironic indeed.

Footsteps caught his attention and he looked towards the door. Lucia appeared, seemingly alone. She looked around, catching his eyes, then looked away. _Ah, so she feels a bit guilty about yesterday, does she?_ A spiteful little voice in the back of his head cackled. _Good!_

It seemed that she was turning toward him, but in the end, the hesitation he could see clearly in her eyes did her in; she turned away and sat in the front row on the opposite side of the classroom.

The spiteful side of him continued to gloat, but eventually his conscience overpowered it. It wasn't entirely her fault that she couldn't think outside of the boundaries of her personality . . . after all, he doubted that he could, either. He just couldn't see his boundaries, so the fact that he couldn't think outside them didn't bother him as much.

He turned his head and looked at Lucia, patiently waiting until she noticed his regard and locked eyes with him. “I'm still not speaking to you.” she warned.

He had to muffle a snort at that self-contradictory statement, but took it in the spirit it was meant. “I've been thinking since then. I've come to the conclusion that I may have misinterpreted his actions after all.” It even had the virtue of being truth-in _her_ case, at least.

She brightened. “I _knew_ you'd reconsider, Jamie! It was quite absurd, after all.”

He closed his eyes briefly. How could she, seemingly so similar to him, know him so little? When his eyes reopened, though, there was still that hint, that spark of anger. “I saw it your way, you mean. Regardless of what you think the truth is, I truly believed otherwise yesterday morning.” He wished he could stand and stalk out . . . but no, not with class starting so soon. _Absurd or not, you could have at least refrained from laughing in my face. You could have at least pretended to believe me._  
  
He turned his eyes away from the raven-haired girl, back toward his desk, on which he had placed several sheets of parchment, his bottle of ink (absently, he noticed he was getting a bit low-he needed to remember to dig his spare out of his trunk and to buy some the next time they went to Hogsmeade). He just couldn't quite bear to see Lucia bubbling with happiness that the rift between them had been, apparently, healed.

_You may have forgiven me . . . but I'm not sure I'm quite ready to forgive you yet._

* * *

Much like her pseudo-twin, Lucia unpacked what she thought would most likely be necessary for the lesson. As always, ever since third year, a small chill ran down her spine. Once, Defense Against the Dark Arts had been one of her favorite classes, despite the quality (or lack thereof) of the majority of her teachers.

That was before she had become one of the beasts meant to be defended against. Now, every time she walked into this particular classroom, she was struck anew with the awful fear that _this_ time, the teacher would discover her secret, or that one of the other students would.

As long as she took the Wolfsbane Potion, she'd be fine. Unfortunately, she doubted the other students would believe that. She'd be ostracized if her secret ever came to light and, although she had never been precisely the best of friends with anyone other than Hermione and Draco and, to a certain extent, Ginny, she was on fairly good terms with just about everyone. Even Slytherin had cut her some slack, due to the fact that she was sister to one of their own.

Perhaps it was unfairly selfish of her, but she didn't want to lose that. Well, excepting the regard of the Slytherins-but she didn't really mind losing _that_.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she glanced at Jamie, still the only other person in the room.

Jamie . . . he was different than she had expected. Not at all like her. His baseless accusations of Dumbledore the previous day was proof enough of that. At least he had seen his error, because as different as he was, she didn't really want to lose him permanently. Still, the remarks he had made . . . the tone of voice especially . . . they unnerved her.

Not only because they seemed strange to the quiet young man who had haunted her dreams through the month of August, but only because they reminded her of, not herself, but her brother. The two of them almost never fought, but when they did, Draco would often go all distant and cold and almost bitter . . . much as Jamie had just done.

She had spoken greater truth than she thought Tuesday evening when she commented that he and oniisan were quite alike in many ways.

Oniisan.

Ruthlessly, she shoved the grief down, deep within her heart. She couldn't afford to grieve now, not in this strange place that was so similar to and yet so scarily different from her own home. Everything seemed strangely colder. Snape . . . oniisan . . . they looked the same, but they acted so different.

With Snape, she couldn't even really pinpoint the difference. He was cutting, elusive, cold, everything he had been in her world . . . perhaps the difference was that she got the feeling that here, he actually meant it.

Gone was the man who had bought her a Firebolt when her Nimbus 2000 had been destroyed near the beginning of her third year, claiming it was a combination belated birthday and belated Christmas present-as if he hadn't already gotten her something for both occasions-claiming that it really wouldn't be quite fair if Gryffindor forfeited. It ought to be given the chance to prove that it was an awful team with no chance of winning.

That was her Uncle Severus. So she had hugged him and thanked him and run off before he could deduct points for accosting a professor.

That's just the way things had been. They both knew that they cared for each other, that he was godfather to her just as much as he was to oniisan, even if the relationship wasn't an official one.

The familiarity made the strangeness of the situation all the more heartbreaking. She wanted to go home. So her father was after her, back home, so what? He couldn't harm her, not here (there) at Hogwarts. She wanted to go home.

“All right, Harry?”

She looked up into familiar brownish eyes and for a moment everything was all right with the world again. She had lost count of the number of times Hermione had asked her that same, simple phrase in that exact tone of voice. It was an unexpected touch of home.

Then she saw Weasley standing behind Hermione. . . . He almost looked like he was worried too. That incongruity was enough to bring her back to her current reality. _It's only because he doesn't know I'm a Malfoy._ She assured herself. It was the only explanation she could think of for his strangely . . . well, almost nice behaviour.

She summoned a weak smile for Hermione's sake. “I'm fine. Just a bit homesick, is all.”

“Why don't you write a letter home?” Weasley suggested suddenly. She raised an eyebrow. Was he actually being helpful? The redhead blushed. “It's just . . .” he stammered, “. . . well, I was real homesick at first, in first year. But owling home always made me feel better, even if my letter wasn't about anything important.”

Lucia nearly crossed her eyes trying to imagine Lucius Malfoy's reaction to a letter filled with pointless minutiae from a homesick eleven-year-old's life. “I don't think that would work. There are . . . erm . . . certain problems with contacting my family.” Even the weak smile disappeared. “If they were even interested in contacting me, that is.” _Well, Father would be glad to see me I'm sure . . . so that he could go ahead and finish what he started._ She shook it off. “Never mind. It's not your problem. Thanks for talking to me, though . . . it really helped.”

To Lucia's surprise-she had expected them to go sit beside Jamie, after all-both set down their books and took a seat, Hermione right beside her and Weasley behind Hermione. Weasley did seem a bit hesitant, probably because of her previous treatment of him. For the first time, she felt the beginnings of a pang of remorse and smiled at him. Not a large or particularly bright smile, but a smile nonetheless. Perhaps, after all, this version of Ron Weasley did not deserve her ill will.

The thought that her red-haired (former?) nemesis might actually have a good side was sufficiently engrossing that she almost missed their DADA instructor's entrance. Up close, the man's face seemed to have far too many lines and creases for his age-if, that is, he actually was the same Mundugus Fletcher from 'the old crowd', who had presumably been the same age as their parents-probably mid- to late thirties.

As a whole, he did not look all that memorable. His hair was a medium brown and his eyes, although she couldn't tell for sure, looked to be a rather muddy hazel or brown. About the only real distinguishing feature was a long thin white line that ran down along his right jawline-a scar that made Lucia uncomfortably aware of her own.

He picked a list up off the teacher's desk, scanning it quickly before beginning to call out names. At Evans, Henrietta he glanced up and looked assessingly at Lucia. “You have the famous Evans eyes, I see.” He finally said. “You have a nickname?”

Lucia nodded. “Harry, sir.” She replied quietly, and sighed in relief as he moved on with no further comment.

It was as he was in the middle of saying Jamie's name that it happened. Suddenly, his wand flashed out.

The red spell-light arrowed directly toward Jamie. Almost impossibly fast, Jamie ducked under his desk and rolled out of the way, leaving the spell to continue on and hit Seamus-the sandy-haired boy had had the bad luck to be seated directly behind the Boy-Who-Lived.

Lucia was impressed. It had taken her months before she was that quick on the draw. Then again, she had always been merely mediocre in Survival. Despite her enjoyment of the class and realization of the value of what they were learning, she had never been quite paranoid and suspicious enough to be a top student.

Not only did he escape the spell, but in the same motion drew his wand and fired off two quick spells of his own. “ _Expelliarmus! Accio_ wand _!_ ”

In the background, Lavender leaned over Seamus. Almost immediately, he stirred, and with Lavender's hand up, stood.

Jamie's wand was back in his pocket as he twirled Professor Fletcher's in his left hand. “Constant vigilance, I presume, Professor?” He asked urbanely. Lucia had to suppress a smile. It sounded so much like something oniisan would say when he was annoyed and trying to hide it.

The man's muddy eyes did not stir from Jamie's left hand. “My wand, if you please, Mr. Potter?”

With a flourished bow, Jamie handed the wand back to the teacher. As their heads came closest, the green-eyed boy said something to the professor, provoking a short whispered exchange that made the man start back slightly to look at her twin with a peculiar mixture of caution and surprise.

* * *

“Next time, you might want to target someone less alert than me.” Jamie advised. Although his voice was calm, his pulse was only just beginning to slow. He was not nearly as in control of himself as he seemed . . . but he hoped everyone else would only see the outer shell.

“You give me back my wand, knowing full well that I will do this again?” Mundugus Fletcher took a closer look at the young man. Was he mad or just stupid?

“It's for our own good. Besides, I am assuming that you are the Mundugus Fletcher that was part of 'the old crowd' and not an impostor. I may not have chosen to trust you, but I _do_ trust Dumbledore's judgment.”

Fletcher had gone very, very still and paled ever so slightly. “What do you know about 'the old crowd'?”

“You and Arabella Figg are both members; it is presumably a group of people on the side of good, as Dumbledore had them summoned, and he wouldn't summon someone on Voldemort's side.”

Jamie released his hold on Fletcher's wand and stepped back. “I warn you, though . . . just because I know you're not a Death Eater doesn't mean I won't fight back.” He glided back to his seat.

Mundugus Fletcher watched the boy walk back to his seat, mind still churning, swimming in the adrenaline rush that the child's words had so innocently engendered. _So._ He found himself thinking, words that nearly everyone who met him thought at least once, though the tone of the phrase varied with almost every person that said or thought it.

_So that's Harry Potter._

* * *

“So, Professor Snape, are you growing senile or am I just crazy?”

Snape Looked at Jamie, one eyebrow raised as if to ask, 'What brought that on?'

“Tentatively,” Draco drawled from the other side of the room, where he was inspecting some of the jewel-bubbles on the far wall, “With no further evidence, I would assume the latter. What brought this on?”

“I just thought I'd see if I could find out-before Potions tomorrow-why Professor Snape made the summer assignment so easy.” Jamie directed his answer toward the blond Slytherin.

He then found himself the target of two incredulous pair of eyes. “Easy?!” The other two inhabitants of the room chorused.

Jamie felt his shoulder blades prickling the way they did when someone was watching from concealment . . . or when he got a feeling that something wasn't quite right. “Funny, that's about what Hermione said.” He tried to laugh off his anxiety.

Draco shook his head. “Harry . . . I _am_ thought to be fairly good at Potions, and even I found that assignment moderately challenging. Much as I am loathe to, I'm afraid I have to agree with the Mudblood. You're crazy.”

One moment all was quiet, the next moment Jamie had whipped out his wand, Draco's hair had suddenly turned the same brownish color as Hermione's, and the wand had returned to Jamie's pocket. “That,” the black-haired boy said with a hint of menace, “is 'the _very_ smart Mudblood who consistently outscores you in _every_ subject' to you.” A pregnant pause. “Or you could refrain from saying 'Mudblood' at all. That would be even better.”

“I do have certain standards to meet.” Draco reminded him a bit petulantly. “It's just not done to be a Slytherin and polite to Mud-er, Muggle-borns.” He changed words quickly when he caught Jamie's warning glance.

“Acknowledged. Good save, by the way.” Jamie inclined his head graciously. Then he cocked it slightly. “Don't you mean 'Death Eater in training', though? Slytherin doesn't _have_ to be a synonym for Dark and Muggle-hater, you know. Despite popular opinion.”

Draco's head snapped back, shocked. “If that's what you think of me, then why are you even bothering to work with me? You really should have taken care of me already.”

“I'm afraid I'm still too much of a Gryffindor for that.” Jamie waved his hand languidly. “You see, I still harbor the hopes that you'll decide to break with your father and come over to our side instead. Hope springs eternal, y'know.”

He drew in a breath, eyes suddenly seeming to pierce through to Draco's soul. Slowly, as if afraid he'd regret it, he asked quietly, “. . . do I have reason to hope?”

Trying to figure out the answer to that question himself, Draco remained silent.

* * *

Snape stalked among the cauldrons, sampling, examining, and making many caustic comments. Despite the comments, though, he was unexpectedly pleased. The potions were not all correct by any stretch of the imagination, but nearly all the mistakes made were-dare he call them?- _intelligent_ mistakes.

Not for the faint of heart, this class had provided him with an unprecedented opportunity to stalk among the cauldrons without causing some squeaky little scared child to accidentally drop in the wrong ingredient or the wrong quantity, almost inevitably melting his or her cauldron. No scared little children could survive in here-and so far, there had been no melted cauldrons.

As he wound his way over toward the cauldron over which Potter and Draco leaned, his mind inevitably projected back to the words uttered by the Boy-Who-Lived earlier. _Easy?_ Even now, the very though almost mortally offended him. Yet it had been clear the infuriating boy meant it.

Well, this would be a test of sorts. When he taught this potion at all in his regular classes, it nearly always came up near the end of the sixth year. He had even been known to use it as part of the Potions NEWT upon occasion. Even Draco-who was one of his best students, all accusations of favoritism aside-would be incapable of brewing this potion without a partner who was just as good. Although it took a very short time to brew, the timing had to be _perfect_ for this particular potion to work.

“Dump the crushed scarabs in now.” Jamie instructed Draco as he approached. One eyebrow raised. They were further along in the creation of the potion than all but one of the seventh-year pairs . . . that is, assuming that they had done it correctly so far.

Draco held the tray over the cauldron, then hesitated. “But . . .”

“PUT THE DAMN BEETLES IN _NOW_ , DRACO!” Jamie bellowed. The tray flew from the blond's hands but landed safely in the black-haired Gryffindor's; nearly all the beetles landed neatly in the cauldron.

Jamie dropped to his knees, gathering the few that had fallen outside the cauldron. After inspecting them for any dirt or other foreign substances, he dropped them in as well. “Honestly, Draco, weren't you reading the instructions? It said two minutes, not two and a half minutes or five minutes or whenever you damn well feel like.”

“What makes you king of the world?” Draco snapped. “Maybe I did read the instructions correctly, hm?”

“Then your sense of timing is off.” Jamie said brusquely, and turned back to slicing the next ingredient.

_Now_ there were melted cauldrons, as Jamie's bellow had accomplished for several teams what his caustic comments and hovering could not. A long-suffering expression on his face, Snape rushed off to deal with the dozen emergencies that had arisen.

Not, however, before he noted that Jamie's bellow had coincided precisely with the two-minute mark.

* * *

As Survival let out, Lucia walked away. “I never knew Harry could yell that loudly.” A voice came from behind her, its tone a combination of shock and a hint of admiration.

She turned her head slightly to see Parvati. “Neither did I.” She admitted. “Did you notice? His and Malfoy's was the only perfect one.”

“Yeah, because his yell effectively sabotaged everyone else's.” Parvati pointed out ruefully. “Then again, neither Justin nor I are all that good at Potions to begin with, so ours probably wouldn't have worked anyway.” She inclined her head down the corridor. “Where are you headed, if you don't mind my asking?”

Lucia shrugged. “I don't know. I suppose I should go back to the dorm and study something, but I'm really not in the mood . . .”

Parvati bit her lip nervously. “I was . . . well, I thought I'd go down to the Quidditch field and take a quick flight. I find it helps sometimes . . . anyway, I was wondering . . . if you'd like to go with me? I mean, I know you're new here and you don't know me too well-I'm Parvati Patil, by the way, but I'm sure you know that already-but . . .”

“I agree already.” Lucia held her hands up in surrender with a smile and a laugh. “No need to talk my ear off. I think you're right, a flight would be just wonderful right now. I would be honoured to accompany you.”

Parvati brightened. “Come with me.” She set off down the hall and, mindful of the fact that she wasn't supposed to 'know' where everything was yet, Lucia followed good-naturedly in her wake. Yes, flying sounded like a perfect occupation just now. It had been . . . too long. She was looking forward to getting up on a broom again.

* * *

When the door to his classroom opened at eight o'clock Friday morning, Snape had a sick sensation in his stomach that he knew exactly who it was. He looked up, and sure enough, it was the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Annoy-Him.

“Mr. Potter, last time I checked, this class began at nine, _not_ at eight. Or is there some obscure rule you are following that requires you to appear an hour early for every class of mine?”

“Love ya too, professor.” Jamie tossed off absently.

Snape could not keep himself from gaping. _What?!_

Jamie looked up and smirked at the expression on his potions instructor's face. “Yes? You might want to close your mouth before you let the flies in.”

His mouth snapped shut and he reddened. _That insolent . . ._ The problem was, the stupid boy was probably trying to incite just that reaction. Against his inclination, he refrained from responding, and was vindicated when he saw the boy's face fall slightly.

Minutes passed with only the scratching of the quill and small sounds of Jamie getting his gear set up to break the silence. Jamie finally asked. “What would you have done if I _had_ been sorted into Slytherin?”

Snape shut his eyes briefly. He had been trying his hardest to forget that little tidbit, as it contradicted several assumptions of his about the Boy-Who-Lived that he wasn't quite ready to relinquish yet. Finally, he settled for the humourous-but still true-answer. “I would have wondered with whom Lily was unfaithful.”

Jamie choked back a laugh at that. “No son of James Potter could ever be anything but a Gryffindor, eh?” The laughter fell away, and a . . . hopeful? scared? practically uninterpretable . . . look came into his eyes. “Am I really so much like my father?”

Whimsically, Snape decided to give that question the answer it deserved. “Before now, I would have said you were practically identical to him in every way. He was constantly getting himself and his friends into trouble, running like a headstrong fool (or a Gryffindor) into every dangerous situation he could find.”

“Now, though, I can see a great deal more of your mother in you. She, too, often got caught up in Potter's problems-but more often than not, it was her level head that got them safely out. She was rather more studious than your father, who succeeded at a mediocre level because he was too lazy to exert himself further. Yes . . . you do remind me more of your mother, now.”

He waved a hand. “But surely your relatives must have told you many stories of the escapades of your parents and their particular group of friends.”

Just a moment previous, Jamie's expression had been almost completely open, every emotion clear, as he hung on Snape's every word. It had been disconcerting, those pure emerald eyes trained so desperately on his own, as if they truly believed he held all the answers. Now, though, he closed. Completely.

“As far as my aunt and uncle are concerned,” he began slowly, guardedly, “Lily Evans disappeared off the face of the earth for ten months of the year. Lily and James Potter died in a car crash.”

* * *

For the new year, the fifth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins had been gifted with new lab partners. It came as no particular surprise to Blaise, Parvati, and Lucia that Jamie and Draco had been paired with each other. For that matter, few of the rest were surprised either-though many were sympathetic towards their fellow house member-but they attributed the pairing to Snape's sadism rather than any more concrete motive.

“Please don't bellow at me this time.” Draco said dryly. “I think one heart attack is enough for now.”

“I wouldn't have had to bellow if you had paid attention to me the first time.” Jamie replied, blinking innocently. “Don't worry about that, though. Today's potion doesn't require anywhere near the precise timing that that one did, so there should be no trouble.”

The two worked in a companionable silence, pretending unawareness of the stares from the rest of the class at the incomprehensible sight of Potter and Malfoy actually working with each other.

This continued until Harry picked up an ingredient that was not supposed to go into the potion yet. Glancing to make sure Snape had his back turned and no one else was staring too closely, he brought his hand over the cauldron.

“Harry, that's . . .” Draco began to warn.

Jamie winked. He dropped the handful in and began to mouth. Three . . . Two . . . One . . . As the potion exploded, he pulled himself and Draco under the table and out of the way.

“What are you . . .?!” Draco began furiously.

Jamie put a finger to the blond's lips and mouthed the word, “Later.”

“Mr. Potter!” Jamie and Draco tentatively backed out from under the table, standing to face a livid Professor Snape. “Are you deaf, boy, or merely stupid? I clearly said . . .” he ranted on about the potion that Jamie had just destroyed, and Draco shot Jamie a vindicated look.

Schooling his expression to appear properly sullen and affronted, Jamie interrupted, “But Professor, I didn't . . .”

“Silence!!” Snape raised his voice. “Are you contradicting a Professor? A detention, then, to add to the ten points I am deducting from Gryffindor. Tonight. Eight o'clock. You can _try,_ ” he sneered here, “to make the potion _properly_ then.”

Still looking mutinous, Jamie grudgingly agreed. And tried to ignore the throbbing in his ankle where Draco had kicked it. After he had already hit it against the table. Although, he admitted, the pain _did_ help him to keep the sour expression on his face.

With a sigh, he started to clean up the remains of the cauldron that had been so stunningly melted.

* * *

Setting his bag down inside the Survival room, Jamie turned. “I have to get to lunch and History of Magic soon, so could you please not rant for too long?”

Draco closed his eyes, giving the impression of someone trying in vain to gather up the shredded remains of his temper. “What were you thinking?! Were you _trying_ piss off Severus? Because if that was your aim, you succeeded admirably well.”

“I was trying to help you, you git.” Jamie offered, his voice falsely sweet.

“Help me? _Help me?!_ You completely ruined both our grades for today's assignment!”

Jamie sniffed. “For me, that's nothing new. For you, I'm sure that Snape would be more than happy to let you make it up.” He tapped his fingers against his thighs. “On the other hand . . . I may be drawing bad conclusions, but it occurred to me . . . that your father might not be precisely happy if he learned that you and I were even sort of beginning to get along.”

Draco's eyes widened. “At the very least, he'd order me to break it off immediately . . .”

“. . . I'm betting he'd tell you instead to make up to me, get me comfortable around you, and then either stab me in the back or capture me to bring to Voldemort.” Jamie's voice was cheerful, as if it hadn't occurred to him that they were discussing his disposal.

“Assuming I haven't been given that sort of orders already.” Draco pointed out dryly.

“I assure you, you will find it harder than you think to stab me in the back.” Jamie returned, still smiling, still cheerful-a fact that Draco found more than a little irritating. Couldn't he at least _pretend_ the thought worried him, even a bit? “And if you had been given those orders, then you seemed perilously close to disobeying them before we got thrown together here in Survival.”

“Just biding my time for the best moment to strike.” Draco replied urbanely, his eyes sparkling. “Well, now that that's been cleared up, I'm off.” He nearly reached the door before turning back part of the way. “By the way . . . I bet I can provoke a better explosion than you can next time.”

Then he was gone, and Jamie threw back his head and laughed. _We'll see about that . . ._

* * *

At eight o'clock precisely-Snape knew from experience and years of fiddling that his clock was exactly tuned to Hogwarts time-there was a quiet knock on the door to the classroom. For a moment, he was disconcerted, but then he remembered the events of the morning. Right, Potter's detention. At his sharp “Come in,” the boy entered, then began setting up a cauldron and gathering ingredients.

“So, I see you're not an hour early for once.” He observed dryly.

“I ate supper an hour ago.” He pointed out. “I would have come straight here then, but I had to fend off the rest of the Quidditch team trying to elect me as their captain.”

“Fend off? I would think you would have been honored.”

With a small spell, Jamie had started the fire beneath the cauldron burning and was now slicing up the first of the ingredients. “Being the Boy-Who-Lived and He-Who-Is-Expected-To-Be-The-One-To-Defeat-Voldemort-Eventually is quite enough responsibility for me, thank you. I need _some_ study time, after all.” He glanced up briefly. “Final verdict was Angelina. Just in case you were wondering.”

His current ingredient was added, a pinch at a time, just as the instructions had said. He then turned his attention to crushing the next step. Without, Snape realized, even looking at the instructions. He raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?” He asked.

The Gryffindor shrugged. “You said during class that I would be trying to rebrew the potion this evening. So I thought I'd get started.”

“From your . . . performance . . . yesterday, I already know quite well that you are capable of brewing this particular potion.” The Potions professor winced at the memory of that perfectly-timed bellow. “I was more curious as to why you felt it necessary to sabotage yourself. You are aware, are you not, that the particular ingredient you added at that particular point in the process, reacts with the rest of the potion in a way such as to make the largest and most impressive explosion that particular potion is capable of creating.”

Jamie grinned. “I figured, if I was going to melt the cauldron, I might as well do it in style. Even Neville has never managed results quite that spectacular!”

“It should be noted that Mr. Longbottom has never _tried_ , either.” Snape pointed out acidicly. He then came to the question that was the most important reason he had given Potter detention. “Why did you do it?”

The grin fell away. “I don't want Draco to have to deal with the fallout that would inevitably occur if the fact that he and I actually get along now were to become common knowledge.” A twisted half-smile. “I don't want Draco to become a Death Eater-especially since, knowing my life, I'd end up confronting him sooner or later and probably end up being responsible for his death.”

“But if he makes that decision himself, I can and will do nothing to stop him. He has too many people trying to control his life already.” He took a deep breath. “Letting out that he had become (sort of more or less) friends with me would bring things to a head one way or another and force him to make his choice. I don't want to make him choose between his father and me-for one, it's not fair to him, and . . .” he sighed “. . . I don't want to have to face the fact that I'd probably lose.”

Snape blinked. He might have expected this sort of well thought out reasoning from a few of his seventh years, but certainly not from Harry Potter. It surprised him . . . and, in an obscure way, touched him, to know that the boy cared enough about Draco to think things through instead of rushing in like a typical Gryffindor, heedless of the consequences.

Of course, he had had shoved in his face more than once in the past week the fact that, while Harry Potter was many things, a typical Gryffindor was most definitely not one of them. Not anymore.

He had been as doubtful as anyone when this particular pairing had become evident. But . . . if Draco cared even half as much about Potter . . . this friendship had a potential to become a _very_ good thing. For both of them.

“Professor Snape?” Jamie noted that the Potions Master had fallen into rather deep musings of some sort. “What should I do now? I've finished the potion, but I people might think you're getting soft if you let me go now.”

Smirk. Snape went over to one of the shelves lining the walls of the classroom, the one on which he kept copies of old textbooks for reference. Flipping through a couple of them, he finally selected one, brought it over, and set it down, opened to a certain potion. “We certainly couldn't have that, could we?” A wave indicating the page. “Brew that. Then you may go.”

Jamie scanned the recipe quickly. “But this'll take hours!” It was nearly as complicated as the one they had brewed in Survival, and a great deal longer.

A smirk that was a bit more like a smile. “Isn't that the point?”

* * *

It was nearly an hour after curfew when Jamie stumbled back into the Gryffindor common room. In a haze of exhaustion, he wove his way over in the direction of the stairs, only to nearly fall over when someone called his name, startling him.

“We waited up.” Lucia replied to his unspoken question, backed by Ron, Hermione, and Parvati. “What took you so long?”

Jamie struggled in vain to open his eyes a bit wider. “Snape is a demon.” _Neglect to mention that, hard as it was, I rather enjoyed it._ “After I rebrewed that potion from class, he set me working on something _else_. And it took _forever_.”

Lucia winced. “And you'll have to suffer through Malfoy's wrath, too, on Tuesday if he doesn't find you before then.”

Hermione frowned. “Tuesday? But our next Potions class is not until next Friday.”

“He's in Survival too.” Jamie yawned. “Don't worry about your eardrums, Lucia. I let him kidnap me and yell my ear off after lunch. He yelled at me, I yelled at him, we insulted each others' parentage, threw a few hexes in the general direction of each other, and finally left. End of story.” A blink that he only just barely managed to reopen his eyes after. “'Night, all. I'm going to bed now.”

“In Survival too? You have to put up with him in class for _four days a week_?!” Ron caught up with him on the stairs. “I feel for you. Really I do,” a pause, “and now I'm even more glad than ever that I didn't sign up for that class. Snape and Malfoy in the same room as you? It must be like Potions all over again.”

Jamie shook his head. He was closer to three-quarters asleep now, and slurring his words. “'S not as cold. And there's windows.” He thought longingly of what he already thought of as _his_ daggers.

Without even bothering to undress, he fell into bed. The evening had been extremely enervating-he just wasn't used to such long stints of such focused concentration as _true_ potions-making required. Yet . . . it had been enlightening as well.

He realized, as he hadn't fully previously, that he liked potions-making quite possibly as much as he enjoyed Quidditch. And unlike Quidditch, potions was something that he could almost see himself doing for a living after graduation. Assuming, that is, that he survived that long. Which, with Voldemort around and out for his blood, was not necessarily as sure a thing as it sounded.

And Snape . . . he began to see what he thought Lucia had seen in the man all along. He was so intelligent, so driven, with such a dry sense of humor-enough to set Jamie to laughing or at least grinning every time.

He knew, absolutely, exactly what should be done with any and every aspect of the potion he had set Jamie to working on, and had not minded giving aid when it was truly needed. Simply, Snape knew potions.

Jamie found that was a knowledge that, for the first time in his life, he truly wished he could share.

On the edge of sleep, he suddenly smiled. _No one would ever believe me,_ he mused, _if I told them I wanted to be Snape when I grew up._

He yawned and curled deeper within his covers.

_. . . minus the dark mark, of course . . ._

And slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 25 October 2002


	7. Books, Brooms, and Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M DONE!
> 
> *coughs* Sorry. But, now that I *am* done with my college apps, I should hopefully have more time to write . . .
> 
> This would have been out several days ago, but then I went back and reworked the last half or so . . . and it would have been out this morning if ff.net (and/or my grandmother's computer) hadn't been messing up. *frowns deeply*
> 
> Anyway . . .
> 
> Oh, if you really want a disclaimer, go read one of the previous ones. We all know none of this belongs to me. 'Cept maybe Lucia's past.

Armed with nothing but his wand (unlikely to be of very great use in this case) and a great deal of determination, Jamie marched off towards the library early Saturday morning. He had forgotten and delayed for long enough. Lucia's first transformation would be on Thursday, if he had calculated correctly, and there was no way he would be ready by then.

He only hoped that he would figure out the process in time to be there for her the second time. Not that his presence was really _necessary_ , with the Wolfsbane Potion, but . . . it would make him feel better. He had a feeling that it would make Lucia feel better too.

Once inside, he went straight to the shelves and started to browse. Madam Pince was there, but there was no way he was going to ask _her_ if there were any nice handy books on how to become an Animagus. There was that whole 'secret' aspect to the business, after all.

On the way through, he picked up a few potions references, a book approaching tome size on the common (and not so common) defense charms, and a beginners' guide to Arithmancy that he figured might come in handy, now that he had switched into the class. Then he reached the Transfiguration section, the part of the library where he thought the book on Animagi-if there was such a book-would most likely be.

There were a number of books on human transfiguration and its theoretical basis, but not one more than glancingly referred to Animagi. If this was a conspiracy, it was a very well thought out one.

Then he found a small, leather-bound book, more a journal than an actual tome, and opened it to the first page.

_They don't want you to become an Animagus, not without a very specific set of restrictions placed on you. Starting only a few years ago, they have tried to eliminate all references to the process. By the time you are reading this, there are most likely few, if not no, true Animagi left._

_You can read this journal of mine, which means you have the potential to become one of us. To anyone else, it appears to be a treatise on whatever they believe to be the most boring subject on Earth. Only to you will it show its true colors._

_Whoever you are, in whatever time period, I wish you luck in your quest to circumvent the rules and become that which is so very feared by those in charge, a creature of power and beauty._

_A True Animagus._

_~~May 14, 1977_

Turning the book back over with shaking hands, he brushed the dust off and read the title. _Animagi for Dummies_ , it read, in bold letters that almost seemed to laugh at the reader. Then, in smaller letters, _a journal of my adventures in becoming an animagus._

_By Prongs._

* * *

To those who did not know him well-which was practically everyone, nowadays-Remus Lupin seemed to be the epitome of a morning person. He was unfailingly gentle and polite at any hour, so there were many people who entered and left his life without ever discovering one essential fact about him.

He. _Despised_. Mornings.

Given the choice, he would never wake up until long after the sun had entered the sky. Frankly, he was quite glad that he was no longer teaching-he missed many of the children, but getting up every morning in time to be _lucid_ enough to teach a nine o'clock class had been purest torture. One of the greatest perks to his current 'job' could be summed up by placing emphasis on one simple word-'Creatures of the _Night_ '.

Sirius, on the other hand . . . he regarded the playfully bouncing dog with an expression only this side of sheer malevolence. How could _anyone_ be so bloody _cheerful_ at this time in the morning?

The 'Grim' stopped bouncing momentarily to turn back towards Remus and _grin_ at him. Sirius had lived in the same dorm as him for seven years, and they had shared an apartment with James for about a year after that, before all three drifted away from each other. He knew quite well how much the werewolf _loved_ mornings.

The fact that Sirius himself was a morning person only compounded the problem.

“Getting to see Harry again is absolutely no reason to be bouncing around like that.” Remus remonstrated, unable to keep a hint of amusement from creeping into his voice.

Sirius turned up his nose and purposefully turned away from his friend, offense seeping from every pore. 'Of course it is.' He seemed to be saying. 'Silly fool.'

“Careful, Professor-Remus.” A cheerful voice came from behind him. “You wouldn't want people thinking you are crazy, talking to yourself like that.” Harry came up and ruffled the fur on top of Sirius' head, causing the dog to look even more offended. “'Cause we both know that Snuffles here isn't intelligent enough to understand you. Don't we, Snuffles?”

That was it. Sirius lunged at Harry, bowling him over and causing his books to scatter all over the floor. The two wrestled for a time, Remus an amused bystander. Finally, with a triumphant shout, Harry pinned Sirius to the floor.

Meanwhile, Remus had bent to gather the nearest of Harry's books and now stood, staring at the title with something approaching disbelief. “Useful Potions for Every Occasion?”

While continuing to keep Sirius firmly pinned, Harry turned his head to address Remus. “I was browsing in the library. Thought it looked interesting.”

Sirius' large pale dog-eyes shot towards Remus, pleading and horrified all at once, with an 'oh Lord, don't tell me my godson is turning into that Granger girl . . .' look. Although there might have been a tinge of 'Potions? Potions?! _Interesting?!_ ' in his eyes as well.

Remus grinned. “Well, if you can manage to break away from studying for a bit, would you like to come visit me this afternoon sometime? Snuffles has been missing you.”

Harry stood, brushing off his robe and gathering all his books back up. For a moment only, he seemed to frown. The expression quickly disappeared-if it had even been there in the first place-into a moderately sunny smile as the black-haired boy gave his response. “That would be great, Pro-Remus. Is . . . eight or so all right? After supper?”

Remus nodded his assent and Sirius barked, once, joyously. Again, Harry ruffled the fur on the large black dog's head. “Well, see you then. Take care, Snuffles, Remus.” He walked away.

As soon as the boy was out of sight, Sirius shot Remus an inquisitive look, whining softly.

“Yes, I see it too.” Remus knelt and placed his hand on Sirius' head. He needed the tactile contact just then. “Harry's different . . . but he's still Harry.”

It was a thought they both needed to remember, thinking about the skinny quiet young man with shoulder-length _smooth_ hair, who came back from the library carrying an armful of books-none of which were directly related to the curriculum-on a Saturday, no less! Harry acted almost as differently from the way he had been as he looked.

_But . . . he's still Harry._

* * *

Jamie looked between the stack of books in his arms and the hall that led towards the Gryffindor common room, torn. He _really_ wanted to get started studying-especially that book on Animagi-and the best place to do that (in his opinion) was the survival room, but . . . he needed to talk to Lucia.

Finally, a defeated sigh hovering on his lips, he began the trek back to the common room. He could drop off a few of his new books in the dorm and pick up some homework to do-wasn't there some sort of short essay due in Herbology on Monday? He'd have to check. Talk to Lucia, and then he could seek sanctuary in the Survival room.

As he entered the common room, he spotted a familiar face over by the fire. Hermione-working on homework already, of course. “Good morning, 'Mione.” He called, walking over. “Have you seen Lucia . . . er, that is, the other Harry? I wanted to ask her something.”

“Harry, you're up early.” Hermione noted, approval in her voice. “Oh, you've been to the library already? You really _are_ serious about improving your study habits. If only Ron would do the same . . .”

“Ah, don't worry too much about Ron. We all have our strengths-just because studying isn't necessarily one of his doesn't mean he's not as strong as us-if not stronger-in other areas.”

“Believe me, I know.” Hermione laughed, deprecatingly. “He's a lot better than I am at chess. Sure, I can hold my own sometimes . . .”

“You're doing better than I am.” Jamie snorted. “I have yet to win even once against him.” He paused, then, “Lucia?”

“She and Parvati got up even before I did. Lavender said something about Parvati having said something about going out flying, but as she was at least three-quarters asleep for both exchanges, I'm not sure how much she processed.”

Jamie shrugged. “It's a lead. Thanks, 'Mione.” He ascended the stairs to the boys' dorms, coming back down with a book bag filled with a somewhat smaller number of books slung over one shoulder and his trusty Firebolt in his other hand. “See ya.”

“Bye.” Hermione said softly to the now-empty common room. _Harry . . . what has changed you so?_

* * *

High on mutual friendship and the chill autumn breeze in their faces, Lucia and Parvati laughed, laughs of sheer joy. The black-haired pseudo-celebrity dove toward her new friend, only to have Parvati shriek, twirling away with practiced ease. “What are you trying to do, kill me?”

Lucia staggered, seeming to loose control of her broom for moments. “Drat! My nefarious plan, she has been discovered! Now, I must dispose of the witnesses!” And she dived, once again, in Parvati's direction.

The game continued, Lucia chasing Parvati around the Quidditch Pitch until, suddenly, Parvati revealed that she was the Goddess of Sugar, Spice, Everything Nice, and All That Sappy Stuff, and had come to vanquish the Evil Whatever It Is That You Are, Harry. Then it was Lucia's turn to get chased.

“I never knew that you were this good of a flyer.” Lucia panted, as they floated near each other, taking a break for the moment. “I bet you'd make a really good Chaser.”

Parvati wrinkled her nose. “Quidditch? I don't know, I'm not much for sports. Especially sports with as high an injury rate as Quidditch.”

Lucia laughed. “I never would have joined my Quidditch team if I hadn't been practically forced into it. Seeker's okay, though, as positions go-sure, you have to dodge the occasional stray Bludger ( _or Beater, or opposite team's Seeker . . ._ ), but the game tend to focus more around the Chasers.”

“So you're a Seeker too?” Parvati's eyes narrowed, then she asked delicately, “. . . is there anything about you that's actually _different_ from Harry? You're just too much alike-it's creepy, to tell the truth.”

Lucia considered. “Well . . . my home life wasn't too bad. It was just my father who was an utter bastard; my mother and brother were all right. All of Jamie's relatives are horrible-I really can't see how he bears living with them.” She frowned. “I've never taken Care of Magical Creatures or Divination” wrinkled nose “I didn't _want_ the position as Seeker in the first place, though I've come to enjoy it to a certain extent . . .”

She turned to Parvati. “I'm rather surprised to see you in Survival, actually. I never would have expected you to be willing to drop Divination.”

Parvati smiled slightly. “I met a _true_ Seer over the summer. Hermione was right all along-the one or two visions Trelawney has had aside, the woman really _is_ a fraud. Anyway, the Seer I met said that she'd be willing to take me as an apprentice in three years-after I graduate from Hogwarts-if I still want to.”

Lucia smiled. “I won't pretend to have a very high opinion of Divination, because both of us would know I was lying, but I know you do. That's great, Parvati!”

As they spoke, they continued to drift lower and lower, until both touched down. Lucia turned to her new . . . friend. How strange that seemed. “. . . Thank you. I really enjoyed this. It's been so long since I've flown just for fun.”

The other dark-haired girl finger-combed fluffy strands of hair back from her face, and smiled. “No thanks are necessary. I . . . I really enjoyed it too.” Her lips curled into a wry half-smile. “I rarely get the chance to just _fly_ either, especially not with someone else. Hermione's too busy-”

“-studying.” Lucia interrupted, smiling back. She loved her friend dearly, but there was no doubt in her mind that the other girl took the whole 'studying' bit too far. _The scary thing is, Jamie is doing it too . . . what's next?_ Me _actually beginning to take school seriously?! I hope not . . ._

“-and Lavender . . . well, I don't think Lav' would come within fifty miles of a broomstick, if given a choice. I think she's scared of heights.”

“She strikes me as the type of person who would try to work out a way to ride a broom sidesaddle.” Lucia observed mildly. In fact, her Lavender had done just that, one time in second year when she had organized a Gryffindor Girls' Night Out Flying, with the help of Katie, Alicia, Angelina, and even (surprisingly enough) Professor McGonagall.

The event had been a great deal of fun for everyone-except Lavender and one of the fifth-years, both of whom were, indeed, acrophobic. And Ginny, of course-the youngest Weasley, though no one had realized then, was already suffering from her contact with Tom Riddle's journal.

Lavender had refused, as she put it, to 'crease' her robes, and had mounted the broom sidesaddle. Despite the fact that she refused to rise further than about ten feet, her strange position had actually worked quite well.

Not, however, well enough to convince Lucia to change her own mounting methods, thank you!

Parvati laughed. “Oh . . .” She finally spluttered. “It's so mean of me to laugh . . . but I can just _see_ her doing that! It's just so . . . so Lavender!”

“If I may cut in?” Both girls turned to find Harry Potter walking up to them, book bag in one hand and Firebolt in the other. He seemed almost disappointed at seeing them on the ground. _Probably wanted an excuse to fly around a bit._

He nodded a curt greeting in Parvati's direction before turning to the girl who could have been his twin. “Lucia, if you don't mind, I want to talk to you for a moment. Alone.” Her brow furrowed. _It can't be too important, or he wouldn't even be asking. But what could he possibly . . .? Well, only one way to find out . . ._

She nodded. “All right. I'll be back in a minute, Parvati.” The two walked away, far enough to where Parvati could only catch a very few random words from their conversation-not that she was eavesdropping. Of course not!

“. . . Sirius . . .” Jamie was saying earnestly. “. . . Remus . . . Tell them . . .”

“Are you crazy?!” Lucia's response came through clearly. Jamie gestured sharply, most likely indicating that she should lower her volume, glancing in Parvati's direction.

The dark-haired Gryffindor looked off in a different direction, pretending she had heard nothing. Inside, her mind was churning ferociously. _Sirius? Surely he doesn't mean_ *gulp* _Sirius Black? Why would Harry be associated with a mass murderer? And what's Harry (the other one's) connection to all this?_

“. . . goddaughter . . . really like him . . . truth . . . somehow . . .” Jamie was still trying to convince Lucia as she shook her head stubbornly. If this conversation _really_ had something to do with meeting Sirius Black, Parvati applauded the other girl's good sense. In addition to being a Death Eater and a murderer, that man was just plain _scary_.

Finally, Jamie sighed. He turned on his heel, walked off a few steps, then suddenly turned. “. . . eight o'clock . . . Remus.” Waiting only a few beats more-for confirmation that Lucia seemed reluctant to give?-he then turned away and made his way back towards the castle. This time, he didn't look back.

Parvati's eyes narrowed. _Eight o'clock, presumably tonight, in Professor Lupin's rooms. I may just have to check that out._ As Lucia came back, she schooled her expression back into polite normality. “What was that all about?”

Lucia slanted her a glance. “Perhaps I'll tell you someday. In the Survival room with no one else around. It's a rather long story.”

_In the Survival room?_ So it was that big of a secret. Still . . . Lucia was new to England. She might not know “. . . Harry said something about Sirius Black, didn't he. Do you know who he is?” She asked urgently.

Lucia's eyes widened. “So you heard that. Damn.” She bit her lip. There seemed to be a conflict going on inside her head, a conflict that finally resolved itself as she raised her head. “All right. I think the time to tell that long story I mentioned is now.”

She muttered something, sounding like “. . . make the best of a bad situation . . .” Then she raised her voice back to normal levels, and fixed Parvati with a stony stare. “Promise me, Parvati, that you won't say _anything_ about . . . certain people . . . until after I tell you that story. All right?”

Now it was Parvati's turn to bite her lip. _But . . . if_ Sirius Black _is here at Hogwarts, we could all be in danger . . . still, surely it won't take Harry_ that _long to tell her story. If he's already been here for who knows how long already, I doubt he'll go on a killing spree in the next hour or so_. Conscience assuaged, she nodded. “I promise.”

Their stomachs growled in unison, and both girls blushed. “Ah . . . food first, do you think?” Lucia asked hesitantly.

“I think . . . that that's a capital idea.” Parvati returned promptly. “Let's go.”

* * *

_. . . do I have reason to hope?_ Jamie's words from Thursday afternoon still intruded on his consciousness, two days later. Then the little half-smile, the almost approving look, when Draco had remained silent.

But why? He would have thought that Jamie would be disappointed that he had not answered immediately in the affirmative. He hadn't gotten around to answering the question, period, yet Jamie seemed almost as if he already _had_ an answer.

He had been thinking about it nearly every spare moment since then, either trying to figure out his answer or trying to figure out why Jamie seemed like he already had one.

Frankly, after two days, his brain hurt.

Although he knew it significantly raised his chances of meeting Jamie-the Gryffindor might have been a ghost, he haunted that room so often-Draco made his way up to the Survival room. He liked the room for much the same reasons as Jamie did-the quiet; the ambient temperature that was perhaps a few degrees warmer than the Slytherin Tower', but still comfortable; and most importantly, the assurance that nothing you did or said would ever leave the room.

Yet despite how ideal the room was, it was a rare occurrence that there was anyone in there other than himself, Jamie, and Severus. Perhaps the others still saw it, not as a refuge, but just as a normal classroom (with a bit extra added) to be avoided at all costs when class wasn't going on.

The fools.

_I was trying to help you, you git . . . your father would not be happy . . ._ Damn it. There was Jamie's voice again, bringing him back, as it always did, to the situation. At times, he felt like the Gryffindor had done a far better job at analyzing the situation and measuring the consequences, before it had even occurred to him that there might _be_ any.

And _he_ was supposed to be the Slytherin of the two! It was almost enough to give him an inferiority complex . . .

Now he was the one being a fool. _Stop feeling inferior to Potter and start_ thinking like him _, damn it! You're never going to figure yourself, much less the situation out, if you keep meandering like this!_ He closed his eyes, leaning briefly against the wall. _First order of business: what does Potter want?_

Carefully, he sifted through all he knew of the boy, all he had learned this past week. All of a sudden, he was struck by the memory of the look in the other boy's eyes as he had spoken of the death of Evans' brother. Fierce protectiveness of Evans, most certainly. But also something else . . . pity?

And when Draco had defended his father, the sad hopeful glint in Potter's eyes that said, as his words did, that he hoped Draco was right. _For your sake, I hope you're right._

All Potter's actions, it seemed, worked to somehow benefit Draco, but not necessarily himself at all. Could it really be altruism, that abstract that any self-respecting Slytherin scoffed at and used in pursuit of his own ends, but that Gryffindors seemed to glorify?

Perhaps that was it. Potter was a Gryffindor after all. Sure, he might be somewhat more bearable and certainly more intelligent than the rest of the lot, but he was still a naïve fool at heart.

Somewhere inside, Draco knew that answer was just a bit too simplistic, especially when applied to someone who had showed himself to be as complicated as Harry Potter. Still, he let it stand. It made more sense than any of his previous conjectures, after all. And for now, it was all he was going to get.

Did Potter have reason to hope that Draco would break away from his father and join the 'Light Side'?

Draco had the feeling that the fact that he was unable to answer in a flat 'no' was proof enough that the answer was yes. _Was that why Potter seemed so glad when I didn't answered? Simply because I didn't answer 'no'?_ Whether or not it was an unfounded hope . . . that he still did not know. It was a thought for another day, one that would most likely wait until he was forced into the decision.

He could only hope that moment of decision would be far in the future. He just wasn't ready yet.

* * *

_The first step in becoming an Animagus is to find out what your form will be. If you go to the authorities to learn, they will tell you you may choose whatever form you wish-so long as it is not an animal that is likely to draw undue notice in the Muggle world. No phoenixes or dragons or unicorns or any of the more sentient animals that are deemed 'legendary' in the Muggle world can be allowed to those who become Animagi the 'right' way._

_By allowing choice, though, the Ministry is actually taking a very significant advantage from you-there are certain advantages that can be gained (in both forms, human and animal) only if you are paired with your own 'totem animal' (for lack of a better term). Choosing the animal yourself significantly reduces the chances that the animal you choose will be your 'totem'._

Jamie snorted. Knowing the Ministry, he was not at all surprised that they would try to restrict Animagi. _Especially_ if going about it correctly was half as important a power boost and advantage as his father kept hinting.

_For three days, you must eat as little as possible, and none of what you eat can be any sort of meat product. You must also get, at most, three hours of sleep each night. Because of this-especially if you're still in school, which I assume you are-it is best that you do this over a long weekend or break. It's best not to have to concentrate on things like homework when you're tired, hungry, and (if my friends and myself are any indication) in an_ extremely _bad mood._

He laughed. The school had probably suffered a rash of some of the worst pranks felt yet, with three of the four Marauders that annoyed at life in general. Scary.

_On the third night, you will fall into a deep and long sleep-so if you have school the next morning, it would be best to go to bed extra early. Fifteen hours is a must. While asleep, you will dream, and in that dream, your Animagus form will reveal itself to you._

_When that happens, come back and write your Animagus form in. The next step will reveal itself to you. Good luck!_

_~~Prongs_

Below were three blank lines, drawn straight across the page in black ink, but with a heavier hand than the former writing. Flipping through the remaining pages, Jamie discovered to his dismay that they were all blank.

Three days, hm? Reminded him that he had yet to have breakfast. _Sounds like today's Day One. Sorry, father, but I don't think I can wait until the next long weekend._ There was only one that he could think of before Christmas Break, actually-Halloween, a Friday this year, they were being given a break from classes.

Rumor mill whispered that the Headmaster was planning some sort of costume ball to take place on the aforementioned day; he wouldn't put it past the old man, as that seemed just the sort of strangeness he'd enjoy. And it was true that their Charms class had begun the year by going over various glamour-related charms.

Oh, well, the only thing he could do was wait and see, he supposed. Sooner or later the rumour would be either affirmed or denied. Until then, there was really no use worrying about it.

His stomach grumbled, and he grimaced. Although thinking about possible costumes _would_ take his mind off his stomach . . . and the two and a half days he had left. _Why should the Dursleys starve me, when I seem perfectly capable of doing so myself?_

He shook off the darkly humourous thought, reaching for the next book in his stack. The potions book that had so surprised Remus and (if he had read the look right) horrified Sirius. He brightened. Just the thing to take his mind off the fact that he was _willingly_ starving himself. He looked on the title page, and the author struck him.

Archimedes Snape? Obviously some sort of relation to their current Potions Master. A grin curled the corners of his mouth. _You'd almost think some sort of potion ran in the blood of the Snape family._ Curling up more comfortably against the Survival room's wall, he opened the book and began to read.

* * *

When Draco reached the Survival room, he was not at all surprised-if a little disappointed that he would not have the room to himself-that it was already occupied. He meandered over to his friend's (?!) side, peeking over the other boy's shoulder to see what had him so engrossed. “Potions, Potter?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

The black-haired boy raised an eyebrow of his own in obvious mimicry. “Why do I keep getting that reaction? Is there some unwritten law that requires Professor Snape-and perhaps some few selected Slytherins-to be the only ones interested in this subject?”

“Perhaps because, for the last four years, you have never before evinced any interest whatsoever in the subject?”

“For the past four years, you and I have been embroiled in a quite intense rivalry; enough to bring you near to being put on my most-hated list along with Voldemort, the Dursleys, and Professor Snape. And look at us now.”

“Only near?” Draco pouted. He then began looking truly offended as Jamie started to laugh. When Jamie refused to stop laughing, he finally sighed, and prodded, “Potions?”

Jamie's eyes unfocused. “Actually, in the very beginning, I remember our potions resource being one of the books I enjoyed most. Then again, I was so bowled over by the very concept of magic that I sopped up everything.” Wry grin. “And then I got here.”

He pulled his face into an abrupt sneer, and hissed, “Ah, yes. Harry Potter. Our new- _celebrity_.”

Draco recoiled, eyes wide. _Woah. I think he remembered-and quoted-even the_ intonation _exactly as Severus said those words four years ago. Creepy._

As if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, Harry returned to his previous expression. “From the moment our eyes met in the Great Hall the night of the Sorting, I knew he hated me. At that point, I saw absolutely no reason not to hate him back, especially once I got to Potions, and he proceeded to make a point of proving to me just exactly how ignorant I was.”

“I came to Hogwarts as a Muggle in all but name; _Magical Drafts and Potions_ was one of my favorite books at first but I certainly didn't have the time to memorize the whole thing! But I was a celebrity, I was _expected_ to know everything, to be some sort of eleven-year-old version of Dumbledore; I was the Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived, after all.”

“Snape didn't give me a chance to prove that I might be _normal_ , though. He hated me because of my father and my famousness, and as far as he cared, that was all there was to it. I would never get a chance, not a fair one. So,” he gestured with his left hand, a gesture of futility, “I gave up. I knew that even if I did something right, he'd never acknowledge it. So why even try?”

“Why try now?” Draco was stunned. He realized that he had never really listened to Potter's side of the story before, but instead taken his tone from his House Head and truly begun to believe that Potter was merely a slacker who used his fame to get what he wanted.

The raven-haired boy laid the potions book down and turned to face Draco fully. “Several things have happened since then to slant my opinion of Professor Snape in a slightly more favorable direction. I still don't like the way he conducts his classes, but . . . well, it's not like life in general is precisely fair, either, is it?”

“And then . . . this summer . . .” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Draco for a long, silent moment. “. . . Cedric's death hit _me_ hard. Especially for the month before my dreams of Lucia started, I sometimes wondered if I'd still be sane by the time September 1 rolled around. A lot of the time, during the day I'd study to distract myself from the memories.”

He shrugged. “I found that I enjoyed Potions and, without Snape glaring over my shoulder at me and calling me an incompetent fool, that I was actually moderately good at it.” A half-smile. “ _I like Potions_. And I no longer have any real reason to refrain from indulging in that preference.”

For a person who seemed so entirely transparent, Draco mused, it was disturbing to realize just exactly how little he knew about his one-time nemesis. “Any other really weird non-Golden-Boy-ish tendencies you'd like to share now, so that I can get over my staring in abject surprise and/or horror over all at once?” He finally said sardonically.

Jamie had a considering look on his face. The silence extended. Finally, he shrugged and, in an abrupt and rather disconcerting reversal from his previous mood, said cheerfully, “Nope! Can't think of any. I'll let you know once I do.”

“All right then.” Filler words, devoid of any true meaning. Mildly bored, Draco turned his attention instead to the stack of books sitting beside Jamie. He started looking through them, cataloging them out loud. “Another potions book, transfiguration, charms and hexes . . . oh, what's this?” He had reached the bottom of the stack.

Jamie snatched the book up from its place on the floor before Draco could even read the title, affirming his suspicion that it was indeed something . . . interesting “. . . Nothing at all. Just a little something I picked up . . . it would bore you to tears, I promise.”

“Well if it's so boring, why are you so afraid to show it to me?” Draco launched himself at the book, only to fall short, sprawling all over Jamie's lap. Luckily for both of them, no one came in in the time it took for the blond Slytherin to gather himself back together and get up out of what could have been a rather compromising position.

The black-haired Gryffindor was still too busy laughing at the mildly chagrined look on Draco's face to prevent his second attempt at 'borrowing' the book. The boy backed away from a now most-definitely-not-laughing-at-all-Jamie, dancing around to avoid grabs at the book in question, while trying to read the cover.

When he finally managed to read the cover, he solved Jamie's problems himself by dropping the book in complete shock. “Holy shit.” He whispered. “Potter . . . is that . . . is that really what it looks like? A guide to becoming an Animagus . . . without going through the Ministry?”

Jamie rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Yesss . . .” He sighed, and leaned down to scoop the book back up. Then straightened abruptly. “Wait a minute. You could read the title?”

“Animagi For Dummies?” Draco said impatiently. “Rather a dumb title, I thought, but certainly not at all incomprehensible.”

Jamie heaved another sigh, this one louder and evidently more heartfelt than the first. “I get the feeling that I'll never get you off my back otherwise, so you might as well go ahead and read it. Here.” He handed the book to his blond friend.

_. . . you can read this journal of mine, which means you have the potential to become one of us . . ._ Draco had already immersed himself in the book, so Jamie didn't even try to hide the thoughtful frown that came to his face.

_. . . I only hope I am right in trusting you._

_I only hope you won't be another Wormtail . . ._

He became aware that Draco had said something, looking up briefly from the book.

“I _asked_ ,” again, like that first night in the Great Hall, he looked rather annoyed that Jamie had been ignoring him, “if there was any particular reason you wanted to become an Animagi?”

“No, not really.” Jamie studied the ceiling. Really, the patterns up there were absolutely _fascinating_. “Might be a useful ace to have up my sleeve when I actually get involved with the war for real.” _Sorry, Draco, but there's no way I'm going to trust you with the secret of Lucia's lycanthropy. Not yet. And_ certainly _not until I ask her first._

“Take good care of the book, okay? I'm going to want it back Tuesday morning at the latest-though we can continue to share it after that, I s'pose.” He looked around, made a decision. He still had that Herbology essay to work on, after all. And somehow, he felt that if he stayed here, he wouldn't get all that much work done. “See you later, Draco.”

The blond Slytherin continued to watch the door for a time after he left. _There's something else. I'm so certain I can almost_ taste _it._

_Damn it, Potter, you're a_ Gryffindor _, for goodness' sake. When'd you become so hard to read?_

* * *

Full of a rather large and (as always) delicious meal, Lucia and Parvati made their way up to the Survival room. Opening the door, they were surprised to see “Malfoy?” Parvati asked.

“Patil? Evans?” The blond Slytherin mocked, rising to his feet with deceptive grace.

Lucia was forcibly reminded of the fact that her brother had been _the_ top student in _her_ Survival class-and no one even attempted to make any noises about favoritism on the part of Snape. He really was that good, and everyone knew it. “What are you doing here?” The question slipped out before she could put a check on her mouth. _With a book in his hand . . . what do you_ think _he was doing here? Idiot._

“Tearing the wings off flies and torturing cute furry little baby animals.” He replied urbanely. “Now? Leaving.”

“You don't have to . . .” Her words were weak. Truth be told, she would be more than happy to see his back-he reminded her too much of things she was not quite ready yet to be reminded of. Even being around Jamie during one of his 'oniisan-moods' was painful enough.

He smirked. “A point to Gryffindor for trying. Attempt to be a bit more convincing next time.” And swept out of the room.

The door shut behind him, and Lucia knew that she couldn't put this off any longer. Not now that she had decided to come clean on everything. _And where's your vaunted Gryffindor courage now?_ She turned to Parvati, who watched her expectantly.

And she sighed. _Now or never._ “I'm going to tell you a story, Parvati. And no matter how crazy it seems, it is the absolute truth as far as I know it.”

“I'll believe you.” Parvati, seeming to pick up on Lucia's dead serious attitude, replied equally seriously.

_Will you? I doubt I would, in your place . . ._ “On November 1, 1981, I was informally adopted after both my parents died.” The narrowing of the other girl's eyes showed that she had made the connection to the date. “I am not, as Dumbledore told the school, Henrietta Evans. My full name is Henrietta Lucia Malfoy.” She paused. “Before my parents' death, I have been told my name was Harriet Lily Potter.”

“This is my story.”

* * *

At precisely 7:55 pm, Jamie knocked on the door to Remus' suite. After only a few moments of nervous shifting, he was let in by the former professor, welcoming smile lightening his careworn face. Almost before he got all the way into the room, he was swept up in a giant hug. Tentatively he returned it, smiling up into his godfather's face.

The former convict looked better-much better!-than he had the last time Jamie had seen him. His hair was still nearly as long, but it was clean, now, and straight, instead of the matted clump it had been. He had also filled out somewhat, losing that gaunt look that had lent such credence before to the claim of his being a desperate criminal. “Life with Remus agrees with you, I see.” Jamie grinned. “You're looking good, Sirius.”

“Life where I know where my next meal is coming from and where I have a shower that I'm allowed to use more than once every ten years agrees with me.” Sirius replied, shooting an amused/challenging/grateful look at Remus. “You're looking . . . good, in a . . . different . . . sort of way.”

“In other words, I'm looking like I've been the next thing to starved for the past two months, and it's been nearly that long since something even remotely water-based touched my hair.” Jamie raised a cynical eyebrow, then grinned. “Nevertheless, a point to Gryffindor for your admirable attempt at diplomacy.”

“Who died and made you a professor?” Sirius asked jokingly.

“Oh, Fletcher, I think.” Jamie responded after a moment's deep thought. “I think” _other than Potions . . ._ “I'd be best suited for DADA, after all.” A smirk. “And the job does bring with it a rather hefty bonus, of course-that way, _I_ get to be the one to piss Snape off because, once again, someone other than him got the job.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “After I get cleared . . . d'you think the DADA position will still be open?” Jamie laughed and Remus looked like he was trapped between wanting to laugh along and to groan or go beat his head against a handy nearby wall.

“Gee, Sirius.” Jamie opened his eyes wide. “I almost think you want to provoke Professor Snape or something . . .”

“Five words, Harry.” Remus had finally given in to his impulse to laugh along. “'What was your first clue?'”

There was a knock at the door, and all laughter died. Only Jamie's smile remained.

In a flash, a large black dog sat on the floor where Sirius had previously stood, and Remus' face gained a worried expression.

Jamie walked over to the door and, despite furious gesturing on the part of Remus, opened it wide. If anything, his smile widened as he stepped to the side. “Ah, Lucia. I was beginning to fear you hadn't come.”

* * *

“Tell me everything afterwards, all right?” Parvati asked. “Since it probably wouldn't be a good idea for me to go in there.”

“Probably not.” Lucia agreed, suppressing a sigh. _I could use the moral support, though . . ._ “Meet you in the common room afterwards?”

“I'll be up.” She grinned. “Give your 'godfather' a hug for me.”

Lucia smiled back, if rather weakly. She watched Parvati walk down the hall and out of sight, before squaring her shoulders and knocking firmly on the door. _Now or never._ She found herself repeating her earlier thought.

Without Parvati supporting her, though, she quickly slid back down into her previous apprehension. _This is_ so _not a good idea._ Lucia chanted to herself as she stepped nervously into the small room. _I can't believe I talked myself into letting Jamie talk me into doing this._

_I mean, yes, Sirius Black is my godfather, and I'd kind of like to get to know him like that . . . but_ this _Sirius isn't_ my _Sirius, and I don't see why he should feel anything at all for me. Even if it is rather sweet of Jamie to keep trying to 'share' everything and everyone of his with me._

_He's trying to get me to feel as at home as possible . . . he probably blames himself for the fact that I'm no longer back at_ my _home,_ my _Hogwarts. Neglecting, of course, to remember the fact that without him, I would almost certainly be dead, a permanently insane inmate at St. Mungos, or an unwilling minion of Voldemort's by now._

A pang of remorse. _Not that I was exactly grateful for the fact that he saved my life. Not then._ She looked around the room, easily and quickly spotting the large black dog that was Jamie's godfather. _Jamie you idiot . . . this is never going to work._

“You can resume your human form now, Sirius.” Jamie said pleasantly. “I want to introduce you properly to your goddaughter, Harry Potter.”

* * *

Sirius was suffering from information overload. Okay, so his godson had just exposed his secret to a total stranger, fine . . . a total stranger, that is, that looked _exactly like his godson_. Except for the fact that she was a girl. And she had this scar practically cutting her face in half, instead of the little lightning bolt that was Harry's trademark.

And he had introduced her as Harry Potter and as his goddaughter. And the way she had looked uncomfortable ( _he could understand that feeling, certainly . . ._ ) but seemed to not have even consider denying it tended to lend a certain ring of truth to the statement.

But . . . two Harry Potters? How did that work? He knew for a fact that Harry was an only child.

He was almost tempted to regain his human form simply so he could chew Harry out. Luckily for his self control, Remus seemed to be doing an admirable job for him.

“Explain. Now.” The werewolf commanded.

“Didn't you ever wonder why we look so much alike? Even though we're supposedly mere cousins, and distant ones at that?” Harry inquired.

“I'll admit to a certain amount of curiosity, yes . . .” Remus admitted cautiously. “But . . . Harry, you're an only child. I should know-and you _certainly_ don't have a twin.”

“Lucia,” he nodded at the girl-who-was-not-Harry, “is an only child too. Well, she had a brother,” for some reason the girl flinched and Harry looked downward, closing his eyes briefly, “but he was her adopted brother, not an actual blood relation.” His voice seemed strangely hoarse.

“So how can you both be Harry Potter?”

“Alternate universe.” Jamie's voice was cheerful, Lucia's resigned.

“So anyway,” Jamie continued on blithely, “since Lucia didn't get a chance to get to know you, Sirius, in her home universe, since you didn't know she was Harry Potter and your goddaughter-” he took a breath.

“Long story.” Lucia interrupted quietly.

“-and since I think the two of you will really get along well, I decided I just _had_ to introduce you.” He frowned at the black dog. “Sirius, stop sulking and introduce yourself to Lucia already.”

That was enough. “I wasn't sulking.” He insisted.

Lucia, he noted, was suppressing a giggle. “You look a lot better than you did last time I saw you.” She commented, then blinked. “Um . . . the other you, I mean. _My_ you.” She ran down. “Er . . . that didn't make sense, did it.”

“Did to me.” He found himself jumping to reassure her. “It's at least as articulate as I usually am.” He grinned and, evidently, it was an infectious one, for she began to smile back.

“See! I knew it! You get along great together.” Jamie was all triumph. Looking at each other, the two came to an immediate consensus. They made identical faces at Jamie before returning to their conversation.

Meanwhile, Remus had a thoughtful frown on his face. _Now I know why they smelled so completely identical-they_ are _the same person. Still . . ._ That strange scent was back again. Strange, yet familiar . . . what was it? . . .

Familiar . . . he finally realized. Familiar, because it had been an integral part of his own scent almost since he could remember. Since that night “. . . You're a werewolf.” He burst out as the realization hit.

Immediate, oppressive silence fell over the room.

Jamie's face fell. Sirius blinked, then shrugged it off. Before she gathered herself, Lucia looked like she had been smacked across the head with a lead brick.

Then . . .

_Oh, who cares how much sense it makes? It's a good comeback._

“Well, who did you _think_ Professor Snape was making all that extra Wolfsbane Potion for?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 15 November 2002


	8. The First Step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I ought to apologize for maligning Flitwick; I no longer remember why I was so staunchly against him. XD
> 
> (I also find it amusing that I was so convinced I’d be sorted Ravenclaw, given how firmly I identify myself as a Hufflepuff now. :D)
> 
> ==
> 
> I do so love Thanksgiving weekend. Five full days of no school . . . it's an amazing stress-reliever.
> 
> Before the question comes up in the reviews of this chapter (as I'm sure it would), I would like to note that yes, I know full well that according to J. K. Rowling, Professor Flitwick is the Head of Ravenclaw House.
> 
> Tough.
> 
> A Ravenclaw myself (and I can see myself being sorted there at about the speed Draco was sorted into Slytherin), I must register my protests. Professor Flitwick is nice and all, and I have nothing against him being a former Ravenclaw, but he's just not the stuff of which House Heads are made of.
> 
> So, in this story, he's not. I have instead elected Professor Vector (teacher of Arithmancy, an eminently Ravenclaw topic) to the position. I know that I am contradicting established canon by doing this . . . but then again, who actually thinks Snape is really Harry's father?
> 
> That said, however much I may deviate from canon, it is because of J. K. Rowling, not myself, that the aforementioned canon exists. Severitus owns the challenge that this is more-or-less an answer to. I just own the plot, such as it is.

“Where is he?” Lucia finally voiced her frustration, looking towards the open door to the Great Hall for the fifth time. “All right, so I can understand skipping breakfast once in a while, but lunch?”

“He's probably coming in later. Or he may have already come and gone.” Parvati, seated across the table from the green-eyed girl, pointed out calmly. “Don't _worry_ , Lucia.”

“Easy for you to say.” She grumbled, glanced up to the High Table, and groaned. “He's _staring_ at me _again_!”

Parvati looked like she wanted desperately to turn around and look for herself, but was only just barely prevented by the voice of her common sense. Then, considering a few other of their recent conversations, made an educated guess. “Professor Lupin?”

Massaging her temples, Lucia nodded. “He's been doing it ever since last night.”

“Well, you really can't blame him.” Parvati pointed out. “I'm sure he's afraid it's his fault somehow that you're . . . well, you know.”

Although Parvati's initial reaction to Lucia's announcement of her 'condition' had not been exactly the most favorable- _You're a_ what _?!_ -she had quickly recovered, and since then had made a point of showing that it didn't matter to her.

Support that Lucia appreciated deeply, especially since Jamie seemed so . . . unapproachable at times-when, that is, she could even find him in the first place! She missed having a _friend_. Oniisan was too different, Jamie was distant, and when it came down to it, this Hermione and this Weasley were _Jamie's_ friends, not hers.

“Well, not his, but _his_ fault. You know what I mean.” Parvati, on the other hand, was there and approachable and accepting. A true friend, even before she knew the whole story. Perhaps more importantly, even _after_ she heard the whole story. Lucia sometimes wondered how she had managed to so thoroughly ignore the existence of the other girl before now.

Perhaps there was something to be said about being stranded in an alternate universe after all. It certainly gave her a chance to see another side to all the people she had thought she had known back home.

Still, home was _home_. And despite the fact that there were things about this reality that she liked far more than the analog situations back home, this place and these people were still fundamentally strange to her. In a way, Jamie was perhaps the strangest of them all, if only because his analog-herself-was most familiar to her.

She missed her home. Missed being ignored by her father, missed the brother that would no longer be there even if she were to find a way to return, missed the mother that had been the largest, the most important figure in her life for so many years.

Firmly suppressing yet another sigh, she ate another bite of her lunch and returned her attention to the empty doorway. _Where is he?_

* * *

A low rumble echoed through the Survival room-its acoustics, much like the rest of Hogwarts, were whimsical, unexplainable, and occasionally weird. Or at least highly annoying.

Jamie paused in the form he had been engaging in with the use of his daggers-forms passed on to him by that first lesson, that already seemed almost ingrained in his bones. Almost . . . but not quite. He could feel the mistakes he made as he made them, would determine to correct them only to stumble across other mistakes the previous ones had been covering.

He sneered at his stomach. “Oh, grow up. You've gone a _lot_ longer than this without food before. Just because you've been spoiled these last four years . . .” Obediently, his stomach quieted. Not permanently, unfortunately-that much he could tell.

Satisfied for the moment, he returned his attention to the flowing forms, taking up where he had left off. It was relaxing and . . . _right_.

Eventually he stopped, covered in sweat and beginning to pant. He brought out a blank piece of parchment, his quill and ink, and started in on the essay Snape had assigned due Tuesday. In his left hand, though, he continued to hold one of his pair of daggers. His excuse was that he _was_ supposed to be studying it.

Truthfully? It felt so _right_ in his hand that it would take almost too much of an effort to put it down. Especially since the fact that he had slept for only about two hours the previous night (more appropriately, early this morning . . .)-and even those had been curled up on the stone floor of the Survival room-was beginning to catch up with him.

If, as he assumed, Draco was also trying to become an Animagi, he wondered what the blond's mood was like now? He had probably never been without three square meals a day and a full night's sleep in his life!

Then again . . . what did Jamie really know of Draco's home life? He never looked gaunt so he almost certainly wasn't starved; he had never seen bruises on the other boy's body . . . but then, Lucius Malfoy was almost certainly canny enough to refrain from bruising anything visible.

Jamie shook his head. _Idle speculation_. Draco probably was just exactly what he appeared to be, a spoiled brat of a Death Eater's spawn . . . who was actually a pretty good friend. In a kinda-sorta-tentative sort of way. Even if he wasn't, there was no real way for Jamie to find out. So why bother to worry about the mere possibility?

It was only when he looked around and saw nothing but black that Jamie realized he had closed his eyes. With a jerk, he reopened them, and slowly refocused on the parchment in front of him. _Fool_. He berated himself. _Almost fell asleep. How weak is that?_

He levered himself to his feet. If he didn't get back to doing something more active, he really _would_ fall asleep.

_But I'm tired. And huuunngrry!_ A little voice in the back of his mind whined. Resolutely, he ignored it.

_It's good practice, after all. What? You actually think Voldemort would come after you when you're well rested and full?_

_Come off it, Jamie. Even Voldemort's not that stupid. He doesn't care all that particularly much about_ fairness. _He_ is _a Slytherin, after all._

* * *

Elsewhere, another stomach growled. _Why the bloody hell am I doing this again?_ The desperately hungry blond Slytherin wiped one hand down across his face, trying to concentrate on his Charms homework. It was his first class on Monday, after all, so it _did_ need to get done soon.

After the allowable three hours (well, two hours and fifty minutes, to be exact-he was playing it safe), Draco had pulled himself out of bed practically by the skin of his teeth. _Long_ before anyone else in the dorm got up. As of right now, he was a mess.

His hair flew every which way-almost as bad as Potter's!-it was a little-known secret that all Malfoys suffered from terrible bed-hair. And . . . he hadn't been able to summon enough energy to get up and brush his hair the way he always did, every morning since he was old enough to hold the brush. A Malfoy's hair was too important to entrust to house-elves, after all.

. . . And gel it too. He liked the way it looked that way better . . . and since his hair was practically his only real vanity, he was damn well _going_ to wear it the way he pleased.

. . . Even if that comment Potter had made still rankled. Oh, what made him such an authority on hair anyway? The black mane belonging to the annoyance in question had always been a nightmare zone anyway. He certainly shouldn't be one to talk-his hair as it was previously would have most definitely benefited from gel. _Lots_ and _lots_ of gel.

Thoughts of the Potter spawn brought him back, as always, to his current predicament. He bared his teeth, an expression unfamiliar to the cultured face. _If he were here right now, I'd bite him._

_. . . And not just because I'm hungry enough that even he is beginning to sound appetizing . . ._

* * *

As she looked up into a face surrounded by red hair from her undignified position sprawled on the floor, Lucia felt almost like she was home again. In a _bad_ way. She opened her mouth to rip into Weasley (in the unique Malfoy fashion) when she was brought abruptly back to Earth-and the right universe _(or is that the_ wrong _universe? Simply a matter of perspective, after all . . .)_ -by his reaching out a hand.

Blinking rather rapidly, she took it, quickly getting to her feet. “Sorry.” He muttered, now looking at the floor. “Wasn't paying attention to where I was going.”

_Well,_ that _much was intuitively obvious, Weasley_. Somehow, she just couldn't say it. It would be too much like kicking a stray puppy. “All right then.” She said mildly, instead. _Merlin. I couldn't have come up with a worse response if I had_ tried _! What's wrong with you today, Lucia?_

“Yeah.” Evidently the redhead wasn't feeling particularly articulate either. They just stood there looking at each other in silence until Ron broke it. _And when did Weasley become_ Ron _to you? Are you bloody insane?_

“. . . do you know anything about unicorns?” He asked abruptly, face nearly as red as his hair. “I'm supposed to research them . . . for Care of Magical Creatures . . . but you don't take the class, that's right . . . sorry for bothering you.” He turned away.

Lucia stretched out a hand in his direction, reaching as if to stop him. “Actually . . . well, you're right about not having ever been in Care of Magical Creatures . . . but I do know a bit about unicorns.”

Although she had never actually met one, unicorns had always fascinated Lucia, and she had done her best to learn everything she could about them. It was a fact that she had kept carefully hidden up 'til now-unicorns were too pure and good for the Malfoy family to be quite comfortable with being associated with them in any way, after all.

_You_ are _bloody insane, Lucia . . ._ She swallowed. “Would you . . . like my help? I'm not as good as Hermione; she'd probably be the one to ask, actually . . .”

Ron ran his fingers through his hair, only managing to spike it. “I'm . . . trying not to ask 'Mione for a while. Last time I did, she practically bit my head off, and . . . well, I doubt you're interested . . . Anyway, thanks! This means a lot to me.” He grinned. “I'd hate to disappoint Hagrid by turning in something up-or should I say down?-to my usual standards.”

It was the sort of grin that demanded reciprocation. Reluctantly, Lucia grinned back. “Even if I _do_ know more than you about unicorns, are you sure that the quality will improve?”

Good humor sparkled in his light brown eyes. Combined with the smile, it was overall such a positive expression as she had never thought she'd see on this particular boy's face. Strangely enough . . . it suited him. “Well, I guess there's only one way to find out.” The red-haired Gryffindor replied. He extended his arm in a mock-courtly manner. “Is now a good time?”

Consideration took no more than a moment. There was nothing in particular she had to do, not at this moment. With all the elegance of a Malfoy upbringing, if not the genes, she rested her arm in the crook of his elbow. “Now is a perfect time.”

_Indeed. You are utterly, totally mad. Beyond any shadow of a doubt and any hope of recovery._

Firmly, Lucia told the little voice in the back of her head to take a hike.

* * *

Nineteen and a half inches. Jamie yawned widely. Considering his current state, and the fact that he had only written the first six inches before he began depriving himself of sleep and food, he wasn't sure exactly how _lucid_ it was . . . but it was nineteen and a half inches. Good enough.

“Where were you during lunch?” He started at the sound, spinning and automatically raising the dagger still in his hand (he hadn't put it up yet) into the basic guard position he had been taught. Then he blinked, sluggishly identifying the familiar voice. _Parvati. Minimal to no threat._

“Oh. Lunch?” He thought, a laborious process, then came to the obvious conclusion. _Same place you've been since ten o'clock last night, dingbat._

“Have you eaten yet?” She looked slightly worried. “You don't look so good.”

He drew himself up. _Only two hours of sleep and I haven't eaten since supper Friday night? That's not enough to affect_ me _. Have I really become that spoiled?_ “No.” Reminded himself not to reply with the truth if she asked when the last time he ate was. Then realized she had given him the perfect opening.

He laid the dagger down alongside its twin, on the spot that served as his desk. With a few well-placed words, set up a small warning charm, one that would give a mild shock to anyone who tried to touch them. Except himself, of course. One of the things he had learned over the summer, although he still hadn't found a good charm to use for himself.

“I'll go do that now.” He had been planning on leaving anyway. There were too many people up here now; he was beginning to feel almost claustrophobic.

As he left the room, he turned instead towards the hall that would lead outside to the Quidditch pitch. _Maybe a good flight will wake me up._

* * *

It was an open secret that Professor Vector had a sense of humour. Those who met him only in passing never quite believed it-he seemed so quiet, with a simple hello or goodbye, or mild reprimand if one was caught breaking the rules, and then he continued on.

A Ravenclaw himself, it was this mix of quiet strength and practically unfailing good humour-plus an unexpected bonus, the way in which he was capable of laughing at himself, unlike most Ravenclaws, who took themselves far too seriously most of the time-that had made him practically a shoe-in for position as Head of Ravenclaw. Even, much to his surprise, when he first began teaching at Hogwarts, the youngest teacher bar Snape.

His Arithmancy classes, much like the Ravenclaw students he regarded as practically his own children, knew his quirkiness from experience. First-year Arithmancy, though . . . in the silence of his classroom, a grin slid its way on to his face. In many cases his first real contact with the students he would teach (in most cases) for the next five years, it was always amusing to see their reactions when they found out he was _not_ quite as 'ordinary' as they had believed.

He coughed, cleared his throat. Thank Merlin, the case of laryngitis that had affected him the previous week was almost completely gone. A brief glance at the clock showed it was eight fifty. The students should begin arriving soon-to tell the truth, he was rather surprised a few of his Ravenclaws hadn't shown up already.

As if that thought had been a catalyst, the door opened. “Ah, good morning Vlad.” He nodded in the direction of the blond Ukranian, one of his third-year Ravenclaws. One of the smartest of that group, in fact-and with Ravenclaws, that was most definitely saying something.

“Good morning Professor.” Although Vlad had been born in Britain, his parents spoke little other than their native language at home, so he had a rather heavy accent.

The chairs and tables were arranged in an inverted U shape, which (Vector noticed) rather disconcerted Vlad for a moment. It was the professor's first move in his eternal attempt to convince students to see this as more than just a conventional class.

Finally, the boy chose a chair about halfway down the left side of the table and sat. The room descended back into its previous state of silence as the two of them waited.

Not for long. Next, a young man who looked a bit old to be only in third year, with raven-black hair, about shoulder length, pulled back. Not anyone Vector recognized. Until, that is, he caught sight of the _distinctive_ scar. _That's Harry Potter?_ He blinked. He had, of course, received Dumbledore's message about there being two late transfer students into his first-year Arithmancy course, but he hadn't realized that one of them was _Harry Potter_. Nor that the celebrity would look so . . . different.

“Good morning, Professor.” A well-controlled voice, but one that reflected the same almost artificial brightness that inhabited his eyes. A feverish light, one that almost convinced him to try to get the young celebrity to visit Madam Pomfrey. “This is the correct room? For Arithmancy?”

Professor Vector nodded. “Oh good, then I'm in the right place.” He walked towards the table, somehow tripped over the leg of the first chair but caught himself before he fell, and finally set his bag and himself down in the far back right corner.

“You could move in closer.” The strawberry blonde professor noted.

“That's alright. This way I can watch the entire room.” The fifth-year didn't look like he had even considered shifting. _Interesting attitude . . . more what I expect from my Slytherins-paranoid as they are by nature-than from a Gryffindor. Then again, this is Harry Potter. He has more reason than many to be excessively paranoid._

The Gryffindor in question turned his attention away from the professor and toward the only other person in the room. “Hello. I'm Harry Potter. Fifth year, Gryffindor.”

After a moment of silence, Vlad seemed to decide that, yes, _Harry Potter_ was talking to him, and yes, he was rather interested in reciprocation. “Oh. Sorry. Vlad Romanov. I'm a third-year Ravenclaw.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Jamie! There you are!” All three people in the room started as Lucia stormed in. Jamie's face quickly gained a resigned look as the other Gryffindor stormed towards him. “Where _were_ you? You skipped breakfast again!”

Jamie leaned back. “Breakfast is for the weak.” He said haughtily. Seeing Lucia's glare, he hastily added, “. . . and those lucky people who the thought of food this early in the morning doesn't make nauseous?”

“You're awake.” Lucia had stopped glaring, and now looked simply contemplative. “Yesterday, you were practically a zombie. I saw you coming into the common room last night . . .”

“What were you doing with Ron anyway?” Jamie asked, curious. “Have you made up with him?”

“-I was helping him with an assignment over unicorns.” Lucia replied, then, “Hey, don't sidetrack me. You were absolutely _wiped_ yesterday. How are you so . . . well, practically _perky_!, now?”

Jamie leaned back and sighed blissfully. _A thousand blessings rain down on the wonderful person who invented caffeine. I detest the taste, but_ man _, does it_ work _!_ “Coffee.”

* * *

_It is_ impossible _to be human with only three hours of sleep_. Draco reflected blearily. He blinked, let his eyes stay closed, then wearily jarred them back open-just in time to dodge a suit of armor that he had almost walked into. _There is_ no way _I'm going to survive today . . . at least, if I survive today, I'll be done with it._

He sidestepped another . . . wall. Nose almost touching the stone surface, he pondered how it had come to be that he would be almost walking into a wall. _Yep. That's it. As soon as I get a decent amount of sleep, I am going to_ murder _Potter. And I'm not going to let him get out of it quickly, either. No, no easy 'Avada Kedavra' for him . . . after all, who knows? It might not even work!_

Feeling for a moment almost like himself again, a wicked grin curled his lips as he turned away from the wall and continued down the hall, happily plotting excessively bloody and painful ways in which to murder the green-eyed Gryffindor _(who really should have been a Slytherin)_.

“Good morning, Malfoy.” A perky voice from behind him. He twitched visibly. _Oh, how far I've fallen . . . I should be able to hide my reactions better than this! I'm a_ Malfoy _, after all! . . . a Malfoy who's too damn tired. I don't know why I'm even trying . . . “_ Wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?”

It was just his luck to have Ancient Runes, along with a certain annoying Gryffindor, first thing Monday mornings. He could have had a free period, but _nooo_ . . . “Don't work me, Mu-” Visions of that _awful_ shade of brown hair danced in his eyes. He wouldn't put it past Potter to have put some sort of tracking spell on him that recorded every time he used 'that word'. “-Granger. I am _not_ in the mood.”

He couldn't be sure, but he thought he heard her mutter something about 'PMS'. _That_ was the last straw.

He paused, then turned to face her. “Oh, by the way? If you see Potter before me, tell him that first thing tomorrow, I am coming for him. I'm going to kill him; rip his guts out and . . .” he continued his graphic description, getting a certain distant amusement out of the way Granger's face was beginning to turn a very unbecoming shade of green.

“He told me you might say something like that.” She finally said weakly, as his description ran down. “Though he refused to tell me why.” Draco raised an eyebrow, in his best 'well-clearly- _I'm_ -not-telling-either' manner. “He said if you did, to tell you, 'Grow up Malfoy, and stop blaming me. It's your own stupid fault.'”

As Granger turned to leave, Draco nodded to himself. _Oh yes._ Definitely _going to kill Potter . . ._

* * *

Lucia leaned over Ron's shoulder, looking at the charms he and Hermione were going over-something associated with what class was supposed to be on Wednesday, knowing the bushy-haired girl. “Hey guys. Feel like taking a break? 'Vati and I thought we'd go out and fly for a while, and I was wondering if you wanted to join us?”

Ron looked envious. “I'd like to, but . . .” He looked back down at the books spread out in front of him. “I really should . . .”

“Hermione?” No response. “Ah, c'mon you two! How's this for a compromise? If both of you come on out with us, we'll only fly for a little while, then we can come back in and we'll _all_ study.”

Ron turned pleading eyes towards Hermione, and Parvati, coming up behind Lucia, contributed her own pitiful look to the mixture. Unable to stand up to the combined onslaught, Hermione succumbed. “Okay, okay. But only for a little while, all right?” Ron grinned, and Parvati and Lucia exchanged surreptitious high fives.

The portrait opened to admit a yawning Boy-Who-Lived. “'Lo, everyone.” He muttered.

“Want to go flying with us, Jamie?” Lucia asked.

“Where were you, Harry?” Hermione asked. “We hardly ever see you anymore, and you've been looking positively awful the past few days.” _As has Malfoy . . . nah. Surely that's just a coincidence_.

“It's nothing.” Jamie waved her off. “I just haven't been getting much sleep the past few days.”

“Is it . . . your scar?” Ron asked nervously. _Well, he hasn't been screaming loudly enough to wake me up, so I suppose that's a good sign . . . then again, it would probably have to be loud enough to shake the entire building to wake me up . . ._

“No. Just insomnia.” He assured Ron. “Hopefully, I'm more or less over it. Hermione, I was just talking to Professor Vector to see if I could borrow a textbook from him until I get the chance to buy my own copy.” Lucia bit her lip. She had the same problem, but she hadn't thought to do anything about it. She needed to talk to Professor Vector soon too.

He continued on toward the stairs, still yawning. “Thanks for the invitation, but I think I'll pass this time. I'm going to go ahead and turn in, see if I can make up for the lost sleep.”

“But it's only five o'clock!” Hermione protested.

“What about supper?” Lucia added. Harry turned on out of sight without answering. _Oh, never mind. It's his own stomach, I suppose._ She turned back to the others. “Well . . . let's go.”

With one last look in the direction of the boys' dorms, the group filed out.

* * *

_“No food at all and only about three hours of sleep total? Is that some sort of record?”_

_“Record of stupidity, perhaps. Honestly.”_

_Jamie groaned, slitting his eyes open, reaching automatically for his wand . . . which wasn't there. “Oh, look. Wonderboy is waking up.” The second voice, sarcastically._

_“Don't worry, we're not here to hurt you.” The first, soothingly._

_He sat up. “Where am I?” Around him, nothing but greyish mist. “I'm . . . in a dream, aren't I.”_ Typical decor. _“Are you my totem animal?”_ Where are you?

_“Bright child. Five points to Slyth-er, Gryffindor.” The second voice muttered. As he looked around, a large shadow appeared, slowly coalescing out of the mist._

_A dragon. For a moment, the mist fell away and light struck it, sparking deeply emerald glints in the scales that a moment earlier he had tagged as merely black, emerald glints that in contrast seemed to further darken and deepen the black, emerald glints that perfectly matched the dragon's eyes._

_“Wow . . .” He reached out a hand, seemed to reconsider, brought it back down to rest at his side._

_“Don't be afraid to touch me.” The first voice, still soothing, now amused. “I am_ you _, after all.” This time, when he reached out he did not draw back._

_“What are you?” His eyes widened._ A dragon . . . does that mean . . . _“Oh wow, can you breathe fire?!”_

_“Quick, isn't he?” Still sourceless, the second voice continued to mock . . . bringing a sense of reassuring familiarity to the scene-the second voice reminded him of Snape._

_“Of course not.” The dragon sounded almost offended. “I'm not one of those” scathingly  
“_common _fire-breathers. I'm a Siberian Ice Dragon; I breathe_ ice _.” When the dragon started to talk, his hand paused; now he began to move again, still getting inexorably closer._

_“My mistake.” He murmured. “I haven't met very many dragons. I can tell you one thing, though-you're definitely the_ best _dragon I've ever met.”_

_As his right hand touched the dragon's snout, he felt a familiar tug at his navel, one that almost made his heart stop._ Not again . . . _“Flatterer.” The dragon's voice murmured in his head, soothing his sudden fear, as it turned back into shadow, the shadow whirling about until it was sucked into his right palm._

_For a moment only, a dragon seemed to be tattooed onto his palm in the deepest of black inks, before that too melted away. He sat in silence._

_“Stupid dragon didn't explain anything.” The other voice again, grumbling. Jamie looked around, curious. He had met what would become his Animagus form; he now knew what he would be. So why hadn't he woken up yet?_

_He asked tentatively. “Who-or what-are you?”_

_“Use your brain, boy.” Again the peculiar momentary disappearance of the mist, the light focusing this time on another animal, one with the same dark green-black skin, the same emerald eyes. A . . . bat?_ I didn't know bats could _have_ colored eyes! _“What use to you is the Animagi transformation if you can't_ use _it without practically screaming to the world 'Illegal Animagi Here'? Being a dragon-a magical being, and thus_ certainly _not a transformation allowed by the Ministry-would do that perfectly.”_

_Jamie smiled, a smile that broadened slowly into an outright grin. “That . . . that's so . . .” words seemed to fail him “. . . so wonderfully,_ deliciously _paranoid! I can't believe I didn't think of that!”_

_The bat's eyes seemed to narrow suspiciously. “I swear, if you try to hug me, I'll suck your blood.”_ A vampire bat . . . _Jamie smirked. “That goes double if you make any jokes concerning myself and your mentor.”_

Mentor . . .? _In thought, Jamie tested the word, examining it. “Yes, Snape rather is my mentor, isn't he? Or I like to think he is, at least . . .”_

_The bat flicked a wing back in a rather self-satisfied manner. “Of course he is, even if neither of you has fully admitted it yet. I know more about you than you know about yourself.” Self-satisfied indeed, and arrogant in the bargain._

_Seeming to recognize the train of his thoughts, the bat launched itself into the air. “You're just begging for a blood-sucking, aren't you?” It gave the impression of turning its nose up into the air. “Besides, it isn't arrogance if I really_ am _always right.”_

_“Right.” Jamie murmured placatingly. Or perhaps that was sarcastically._

_“I like you, kid.” The bat flitted around his head. “You have sense . . . sometimes. Now, once you gain control of me, you'll gain control of the dragon as well, but there may be certain . . . changes . . . that happen right away. Don't worry, it's nothing drastic-not enough for most people to even notice. Don't be freaked.”_

_“I'm Harry Potter.” Jamie tried for, but did not quite obtain, the same hautieur that the bat had formerly displayed. “I don't_ do _'freaked'.”_

_“Good to hear.” The bat gave him what looked almost like a wink. Then, much more quickly than the dragon, it too shifted into shadow, and dove down into his left palm. Stylized, the image of a bat, again in the darkest of blacks, hovered there for a moment-“Don't let the turkeys get you down,” it seemed to whisper-before dissipating._

* * *

8:30.

The first sight Jamie saw as he opened his eyes, a sight he ignored at first in favor of thinking over his dream. “Dragon.” He rolled the word off his tongue softly. “Bat.” _I like it. I really,_ really _do._

The dragon had been so gentle and sweet . . . but the bat had had more of a genuine _personality_. And now that the bat was no longer threatening him with imminent pain, he could freely acknowledge the thought that had only briefly passed through his mind in the dream: the bat was a _lot_ like Professor Snape.

And not just because the aforementioned professor was commonly compared to an overgrown specimen of that species. The sarcasm, the wry humour . . . if not the frank admission of liking him; Jamie had no doubt that, although Snape probably no longer hated him, neither did he particularly like him.

That was all right. Jamie didn't necessarily particularly like Snape all the time, either. Even the bat, had he been around it for long enough, would probably have gotten on his nerves eventually.

8:31.

The shift in number brought his gaze inexorably to rest on the clock. For a moment, he continued to lie there. The information had not quite sunken in yet. His eyes then shifted forward and to the left a little, a small square of parchment.

_Harry-_

_We tried to wake you up, truly. But you were dead to the world-I don't think even Hogwarts burning down around you would have woken you up!_

_I hope you wake up in time. See you at breakfast or, failing that, in Transfiguration. You_ will _be up by then, right?_

_-Ron_

Transfiguration. _The classroom is_ not _particularly close to Gryffindor Tower, you know . . ._ a small voice in the back of his head noted.

8:32. Transfiguration started at 9:00.

_Finally_ , he began to move. Accelerating almost impossibly from rest to full speed, he shot out of bed.

“Oh shit! _I'm going to be late!_ ”

* * *

At 8:58, bookbag in hand, Jamie slid into the Transfiguration classroom. “Nice to see you, Harry!” Ron chirped cheerfully from the head of the classroom. “Didn't think you were going to make it.”

Jamie flipped his hair back _(and how strange it was, to have hair long enough to be_ able _to do that . . .)_ and grinned. “Not my fault I overslept. I was aiming for fifteen hours, but _nooo_ , I ended up sleeping fifteen and a half instead.”

“Coffee again?” Lucia asked from the other side of the room. “Although your perkiness does seem a bit more natural than that positively _hyper_ act you were putting on for Professor Vector yesterday morning.”

Muffling a smile, Jamie pulled at an earlobe. “Ah, yes. The poor man's probably scarred for life. And no, Lucia, no coffee. I've sworn the stuff off-except for in dire emergencies, of course.”

“That's most likely a good thing.” Parvati quipped from the seat to the left of Lucia's. “After all, it's not like your growth needs any more stunting. You're short enough as it is.”

Stung, Jamie protested, “I'm taller than Malfoy!”

At the front of the room, Hermione looked up briefly from her textbook, pushing a pair of reading glasses further up her nose. “Harry . . .” she began gently, “. . . I know _first-years_ who are taller than Malfoy.”

Gryffindors all, and by this time heartily sick of Malfoy and his antics, the entire classroom burst into raucous laughter. Impervious, as soon as it quieted, she continued, “And you were right. Malfoy is _very_ angry at you for something.” Light glinted off her glasses, and the predatory light in her eyes could have been seen by any but the blind. _Are you going to tell me_ now _, Harry?_

“What did you do to him?” Ron leaned forward eagerly.

“And why didn't you let me help?” Dean added, grinning.

“ _I_ didn't do anything.” Jamie replied. “Malfoy's just showing his unwillingness to take responsibility for his own actions . . . again.”

“Spoiled brat.” Lavender muttered.

No one disagreed.

As Professor McGonagall entered the classroom, the focus of attention shifted. Harry raised his hand surreptitiously to wipe the sweat off his nose-strangely, the place that sweated most copiously and frequently. Especially when he was embarrassed, nervous, or being put on the spot. As his hand passed across his face, though, he got the feeling that Something Was Missing.

_Where are my glasses?_ His face felt somehow bare without them, although he had not noticed their absence until that moment. Which brought up another, even more interesting question.

_Why can I see?_

* * *

Jamie literally wolfed down his food, while the rest of his nearby friends watched with a fascination that approached horror. “Jamie? Are you alright?” Lucia asked hesitantly.

For once during the meal, the green-eyed Gryffindor paused to chew. He swallowed. “Yeah. Fine. Just a bit hungry.”

“That's what you get for skipping breakfast.” Hermione sniffed, as if she had never before become so engrossed in a book that she simply forgot to eat.

Jamie grinned, one that seemed to hold hints of mischievous mystery around the edges. 'I'm not telling!'

* * *

By the time he reached the Survival room, Draco was there already. “What took you so long, Potter?”

“I was eating. So, have you gotten over your urge to-what was it?-ritually disembowel me yet?”

A shark-like grin. “Thank you, Potter, for reminding me.” He picked up a dagger-his long one-putting it back down after a moment's consideration. “No, this will be far more satisfying if I do it myself.” He began to stalk towards Jamie.

Who stayed where he was, seemingly unconcerned. “I don't know that it's possible to disembowel someone without using some sort of sharpened tool.” He reached into a pocket and brought out a piece of black string, using it to tie his hair back. “Guess you'll have to go with-what was your second choice again? Strangling me?”

Without pausing in his slow stalk, Draco held out his hand admiringly. “You know . . . keeping my fingernails comparatively long _does_ have its benefits, after all.”

“Why are you so pissed, anyway?”

“You cause me to get a total of five hours, forty-five minutes, and twelve seconds worth of sleep (yes, I counted that exactly, Potter. Shut up.) over the course of two days, and eat so little that I could practically _feel_ myself shrinking for _three_ days, and you have the nerve to ask me why I'm so angry?”

“I got three hours of sleep and ate nothing. The bat said I was a moron-I think you'd like him; he reminded me a lot of Professor Snape. You seem to be missing the point, though-it was your choice.”

“No, Potter, it is you who has missed the point.” They were practically nose and nose now, and Draco was baring his teeth as if he had been practicing the expression for years. “It. Is. All. Your. Fault.” He lunged.

* * *

First year Hufflepuffs. Ohjoyohjoyohjoy. They were, if possible, the most _hopeless_ group of children he had ever been unfortunate enough to teach. (Of course, this is the man who has said essentially the same thing about every single group of Gryffindors and about three-quarters of the Hufflepuffs he has taught . . .) And now he had to grade their pitiful attempts at essay writing.

He was getting a headache just thinking about it. Thank goodness there were only five of them . . . maybe by the time he finished, he would have gotten away with not getting a full-blown migraine.

When a caltrop on his desk-the indicator of malicious energy that he had attuned to the Survival room-began to glow, he _knew_ that any hope of not having a migraine had just disappeared. Stopping in the middle of a word, he jolted out of his seat and took off towards the other room.

_How did someone with malicious intent get in? The only ones allowed in there are the students . . . did I leave a loophole in my wards? I was so sure they were airtight . . ._

_I hope I'm not too late . . ._

By the time he reached the room, he was afraid it would all be over, the perpetrator already fled through the same hole in his wards through which it had come. “Tom Riddle” he pressed his hand to the panel, waited impatiently for the door to open.

Harry Potter _(of course, who else . . .)_ sat in the middle of the room, Draco Malfoy's head in his lap. Both looked about equally roughed up; Harry was stroking his fingers through the latter's hair with a look on his face that approached blissfulness.

Here in the room-or at its boundary, whatever-he was tied in directly to the wards. Feeling no more of that malevolence, he sagged. _Too late._

As he watched, though, Draco formed his hand into a fist. “All your fault, Potter.” And punched the Gryffindor's leg. The malevolent energy he had felt earlier spiked.

_Oh._ Suddenly it made sense. Although why Potter and Draco had chosen _here_ to rip into each other was something of a mystery. “Whatever.” The other boy replied cheerfully. No malevolence there.

“Next time . . .”

“. . . you really will kill me. Mmhm. Just let me know when.” The Boy-Who-Lived seemed strangely indifferent to the fact that it was his death being discussed.

“I hate you, Potter.”

“That's nice dear.”

Draco pouted. “Why won't you take me seriously?”

The raven-haired Gryffindor considered. “Perhaps because if I were to take you truly seriously, I'd have to kill you. Or at least go to Dumbledore and have you expelled. And I enjoy your company too much to do that.” A beatific smile. “'Sides, I know that you don't mean it. Not really.”

Another weak punch. “Take me seriously, damn it!”

“Malfoy, the only person I take seriously is Voldemort. Do you _really_ want to compare?”

“-And stop stroking my hair!” When in doubt or faced with an inability to retort, change the subject. “I'm not a dog!” The hand resting on the Slytherin's head abruptly stopped, quickly hiding in a pocket, and green eyes popped open.

Arms folded across his chest, Snape cleared his throat quietly. Silver eyes joined green in staring, startled and abashed, in the direction of the door. “Do I really want to know, Draco, why you're lying with your head in Potter's lap?”

The ordinarily urbane Slytherin scrambled out of the aforementioned position, hair in a disarray. _Looks like he just climbed out of bed._ Which thought brought up alternate uses for a bed. Both were still clothed, and there _was_ the malevolence to consider, so that particular image was highly unlikely. _Still, Severus, I think you need to stop thinking. Now._

“Probably not.” Potter quipped. “The reality is rather prosaic, so you'll have a lot more fun just imagining, I'm sure.”

“Don't make me smack you again, Potter.” Draco warned. “Professor, I was just beating Potter up because . . .”

“. . . of some imagined wrong that Malfoy believes is my fault.” The Gryffindor stood, stretched. What looked like it was originally some sort of pony-tail was in considerable disarray, but on the whole, it looked like Potter had come out on top. _Ack! Bad mental image! Stop it! Now!_

“It _is_ your fault, Potter.” Draco brushed hair out of his eyes.

“Just keep on telling yourself that.” He murmured, eyes seemingly locked on Draco's hair. “You _sure_ I can't touch it again?”

Look of irritation. “What are you nattering on about now?”

“Your hair.” Snape joined Draco in staring, in that Are-you-insane?!' manner that they both had a great deal of practice using-especially since becoming better acquainted with the Potter scion (although Snape at least got a lot of practice using it on his fellow faculty and especially Dumbledore).

“Potter . . . why do you want to touch my hair?” Draco asked, slowly enunciating each word. Now that there was so much focus being placed on it, Snape noticed that in addition to being all over the place, there was definitely something different about his godson's hair. _He didn't gel it today? I wonder why?_

“It's so soft and silky.” Jamie drifted forward. “I love-”

Draco backpedaled.

The Gryffindor snapped back into focus. “I was going to say 'your hair'.” He snapped. Draco looked mildly embarrassed. “Why didn't you gel it today? Not that I'm complaining, mind you. It looks a lot better this way, so silky . . . beautiful . . .”

“Not again,” Draco moaned, as Jamie seemed to space out again. Then he stopped. “Whaddaya mean, I didn't gel it. Of course I gelled it. I _always_ do.”

“Certainly doesn't look like it.” Potter maintained, and Snape nodded in silent agreement.

“But it's always gelled. I _remember_ gelling it this morning . . .” Draco seemed to be drifting off into shock.

Snape, his hair in lank locks that fell haphazard around his face, exchanged a look with Jamie, whose hair was often in much the same state, now that it was comparatively long. _Who in their right minds would spend that much time on their hair?_

“Regardless, you might want to get straightened up.” He suggested mildly. “You both look like you've been through a blender.”

“You always know what to say to make a guy feel appreciated.” Jamie grinned through the sarcasm in his voice.

Snape stepped out of the doorway in which he had been standing through the conversation; a clear invitation.

“Scoot.” The two boys scooted.

* * *

“Bat.” Jamie commented proudly, as they reached the intersection at which they would split up. “How about you? Ferret?”

“Potter, do you really want me to hurt you _that_ badly?” Draco could feel his hands curving into claws. That was, most definitely, one of _the_ most embarrassing things that had ever happened to him in his _life_ , and not something he was particularly fond of being reminded of. “Fox. If you really wanted to know, and not just bait me.”

“Sorry.” Amazingly, the Gryffindor actually did look it. “I guess I never really thought about what it would have felt like, only how much fun it was to watch.”

“Humiliating.” Draco stared straight ahead, refusing to look Jamie in the face. “The most humiliating thing that has ever happened to me.”

“Even more humiliating than my kicking your ass just now?” Jamie turned down the corridor that led towards Gryffindor, then turned his head back briefly in Draco's direction. “See you back in the Survival room.”

“At least there weren't any witnesses.” Draco muttered. Then, when the other boy was out of sight, he finally processed the entirety of the comment.

“And you did _not_ kick my ass!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 28 November 2002


	9. Wanted: One Missing Slytherin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and Happy Winter Holidays of Various Shapes and Sizes to all.
> 
> I don't suppose J. K. Rowling would be willing to give me the Harry Potter series for Christmas, do you?
> 
> Didn't think so. Pity. Well, until that happy day, I suppose I'll just have to be content with wantonly ripping her off, secure in the knowledge that, since I'm not getting paid, it's all okay.
> 
> Ain't fanfiction grand?

"Severus, are any of your Slytherins missing?"

"Fletcher, just because I emerged out of my cave to eat lunch here in the staff room-an impulse I'm regretting more and more by the moment, I assure you-for once does not mean you need to attempt to engage in small talk with me."

"No, I'm serious. Are you missing any of your Slytherins?"

The Potions Master sighed, and reluctantly turned his attention away from the copy of _Potionmaking Quarterly_ he had found and subsequently preempted-the real reason he had deigned to come eat up here. To his surprise, Mundugus Fletcher did indeed look serious.

Well, actually, Fletcher looked more wild-eyed than anything, but that still got the point across. He wondered what any of his Slytherins could have done . . . and how he could sneak in a point or two for Slytherin over this . . . whatever it turned out to be. With a sigh, he brought a scroll of parchment, one he carried everywhere with him.

He tapped it peremptorily. "Show me my children."

The parchment elongated as writing appeared, until around sixty names-sixty-six, to be precise-were written in emerald green ink. _Pucey, Andrea - First Year Girls Dorm_ , said one entry. Another, _Parkinson, Pansy - Transfiguration Classroom_.

Snape scanned the list. "I see nothing out of place." A snap of his fingers, and the parchment shrank, curled up, and jumped back into his pocket. He turned his gaze back to the frazzled Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. "What seems to be the problem?"

"I think one of them is Polyjuicing as Harry Potter." Fletcher slumped. "That boy is impossible! As bad as the fifth-year Slytherin class-which is the worst of the lot. No offense meant, but they _are._ "

If not for the fact that Severus Snape's eyes _never_ twinkle (and he'd be quite likely to hex anyone who suggested they did, thankyouverymuch), one would almost believe they were, indeed, twinkling.

Snape, amused at the plight of his fellow professor? Are you kidding?! Of course he was! Especially since he had already been forced to sit through said professor's complaints about his fifth-years. Twice. (He had heard that _Potionmaking Quarterly_ had come in a week early-regrettably, a false alarm. He still suspected foul play, as Albus had looked _far_ too innocent at the next staff meeting. In which Fletcher had taken yet another opportunity to complain.)

"Even if Gryffindors rarely have the reflexes you're trying to program into them, this _is_ Potter were talking about. You shouldn't be so surprised that he's a bit paranoid." Snape was attempting to sound soothing. Well, sort of. He didn't _really_ want his former schoolmate to have a complete nervous breakdown or anything of that sort.

Not while he was the only other person in the room, at least. He'd rather live with being blamed mostly just for the actions he had _actually_ committed.

But _damn_ , it was funny watching the former Ravenclaw squirm.

"A _bit_?!" The brown-haired man spluttered. "Severus, he _fights back_!"

"My fifth-years don't?" Severus frowned. _Perhaps I should speak with them. They really ought to know better by now. Sitting back and taking abuse from someone they don't know for a fact deserves that respect is just stupid. Unless there's a good reason-in which case, they ought to be planning revenge._

"Well, yes, but . . . no one else does!" Poor Fletcher. He had his own nice little logical world set up, but certain people just weren't cooperating. Snape resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _Ravenclaws._ "And he's worse!"

An eyebrow raised at this intriguing bit of information. The fifth-year group, with someone like Draco as their ringleader, was one of the worst groups of troublemakers to come through Slytherin in quite a while. Refusing to respect their teachers-except him, of course-always plotting up some sort of scheme against the other houses . . . it made him feel positively juvenile again. Was it any wonder that they were his favorites?

"Don't raise your eyebrows at me, Severus." Fletcher practically growled. "It's true. Your Slytherins . . . they just bounce back whatever I throw at them, then send me an extra little something to grow on." The man winced; Snape wondered at just how awful his students must have been, in order to provoke this sort of reaction less than two weeks into the term.

"Harry Potter does all that, and then finds it amusing to toss hexes my way while I'm in the middle of class."

Snape tried to keep his face straight. _Oh, good one, Potter. So much for constant vigilance, eh, Fletcher?_ "Why are you talking to me about it, Fletcher?" He waved a hand dismissively "Just go see Albus and request that Potter be transferred into the fifth-year Slytherins class. That way," he ended flippantly, "you'll have all the worst troublemakers in one spot."

He should have known better. If there was one thing he should have learned by now, it was that everyone took his words at face value. They may not _believe_ him, but they'd certainly never entertain the possibility that he might have been joking. Not all that strange, considering how rarely he _did_ joke. Still . . .

Fletcher brightened considerably. "Thanks, Severus. I think I'll do that!"

* * *

"Was that _really_ necessary, Harry?" Hermione asked. "Hexing the teacher could have gotten you into serious trouble."

"The look on his face . . ." Ron, who had managed to stop laughing long enough to eat lunch, had been set off once again by Hermione's comment.

"Honestly." Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes at the redhead's antics. "You can stop laughing now, Ron." Apparently giving up, she turned back to Jamie. "You should have at least finished answering the question."

"I did." Impudent smirk. "Afterwards. Frankly, I'm just impressed that he dodged it."

"Who dodged what?" Draco, sans bodyguards, sauntered up. Catching sight of Jamie's smirk, he cocked his head and widened his eyes innocently. "Why, Potter. Are you trying to imitate your cousin?"

Twitching eyelid. "Malfoy . . . _one_ connection _seventeen_ generations back does _not_ make us related!" The lamplight glinted off Malfoy's inhumanly white-silver-blond hair, drawing Jamie's eyes and temporarily muting him.

"Oh, I don't know." If possible, Draco managed to look even more innocent. "Harry Snape . . . it has a pretty nice ring to it, _I_ think . . ."

"Malfoy!" Jamie lunged; Draco scampered away. Chasing each other, they dashed further down the hall.

"Harry . . ." Hermione blinked.

". . . is related to _Snape?!_ " Ron finished, looking a bit green. "Poor Harry."

"Don't worry. It was probably just Malfoy being Malfoy." Lucia assured them, feeling slightly green herself. _Snape is nice and all, but I wouldn't want to be related to him._

* * *

"So? Who dodged what?" Draco asked, as the two of them leaned against the door to the Survival room, catching their breaths.

"Professor Fletcher. Hex." Jamie replied succinctly.

"You?" A surprised bark of laughter. "Why Potter, I do believe I'm impressed! Most of us have such lamentable aim that he doesn't even bother to dodge." A smirk. "I am, of course, _not_ in that category."

"Of course not." Jamie smirked back. "So, what have you used so far?"

"Getting vindictive in your old age?"

"Not at all." Jamie protested loftily. "I just believe that Professor Fletcher ought to be given an ample opportunity to prove the value of the credo 'Constant Vigilance' through his actions."

Draco snickered. "I agree wholeheartedly. Not that I have anything against paranoia-it's the healthiest way to live, in my opinion."

"Within reason." Jamie agreed. "It's good to be willing to trust _some_ people, though."

A twisted expression. "The problem," Draco noted quietly, "is in figuring out _who_ to trust."

Jamie smiled his own, rather twisted smile. "There is that." _And sometimes people make the wrong choices._ "There is definitely that."

In relative silence, they turned and entered the classroom; the only sounds the faint clicking of their heels against the stone floor and the quiet murmur as each said his password.

The room was filled with a soft golden light from the windows, giving the room a very welcoming feeling. Without looking back, Draco observed, "you're doing it again, aren't you."

Jamie shook himself out of musings on the way the sunlight reflected off the Slytherin's hair-really, showing it to far better advantage than torchlight did. "Hm? Doing what?"

"Are you sure you're not actually a crow or a raven?" Draco asked.

"I think I know the difference between a bat and a bird." Jamie replied. "Even if the first bat I ever saw outside of school books was the one in my dream. Why?"

Twitching eye. "Because you seem to have an unhealthy fascination with shiny things." A pause. " _Like my hair!_ "

Jamie shrunk in on himself guiltily. "I was doing it again, wasn't I. Staring at your hair."

" _Yes_." The annoyed boy hissed. "Look . . . I know you mean nothing by it . . . but it's still _really_ annoying." He cocked his head. "Actually, you were doing pretty well yesterday. But today . . ."

"Yesterday I was concentrating on not staring at you." Jamie looked at the ground. "But . . . well, I'm just distracted today. More than normal. So I'm not keeping track and . . . I forget." _Tonight's the full moon . . ._ He had talked to Lucia the day before, trying to come up with a good place for her to hide overnight.

The Shrieking Shack wouldn't work; not if they were to truly keep Lucia's condition as secret as possible. It turned out that the werewolf had already thought things through and-here she dropped the bombshell-told her new friend Parvati about her condition.

Parvati, being a prefect, had her own room and was able to offer that as a place for Lucia to hide during those hours when she was transformed. Jamie had been left feeling vaguely useless, finally saying nothing more on the topic than telling her to warn Parvati that he would most likely drop in at some point in the night and visit.

"I forgot yesterday . . ." Draco dove briefly into his bookbag, finally drawing out a small bound volume that he tossed Jamie's way. "Here's this back." Suddenly, all memory of his feelings of uselessness was banished, as he realized there _was_ something he could do.

Draco observed his bright face with growing distrust. He had been around the strange Gryffindor enough recently to know that that was not necessarily a good thing. "What evil plot is running through your mind now?"

Jamie blinked, then widened his eyes and put on his best 'who-me?' innocent smile. "What makes you think I was plotting?"

"You were plotting, Jamie? What sort of plot?" Lucia asked from behind him. "Can I help?"

"I'm not plotting!" The black-haired wizard protested. "Hey, Parvati. I've got a book I want you to read." He chucked the journal in his hands in the direction of the startled girl.

"Potter!" Draco protested instinctively. "What are you . . . what did you . . . what . . .?!" He descended into incomprehensibility.

"Nothing you need to worry about." Jamie shoved his hands in his pockets. Nearly his entire attention was on Parvati, who looked at the book in her hands with first surprise, then growing shock and comprehension.

"Thanks, Harry." She smiled widely. "I'll make good use of it, I promise."

He shrugged, smiling sheepishly. "Come see me in three days, and then we'll see."

At this moment, Snape appeared in the doorway, and Parvati scattered, dragging Lucia along with her. Jamie nodded his acknowledgment of his teacher's presence, only to blink as the taller man swept past without even looking at him.

He turned, only to see his professor greet Draco with the exact same treatment. The two partners blinked at each other in mutual incomprehension. It seemed almost as if Snape was making an effort to avoid them. Now Jamie could understand this directed towards himself, as that had been the basis of his and Snape's relationship (interspersed with detentions, point deductions, and scathing commentary) for the first four years of his schooling here at Hogwarts, but Draco?

He could not recall a time when Snape had not had something nice to say to his favorite student-a title which Draco almost definitely held. At the very least, a nod and the Snapeish equivalent of a smile. This was most definitely strange behaviour.

* * *

He had come up here, to the Survival room, in order to get a few moments' peace before the afternoon session began. Of course, it didn't work that way-the room was already occupied. And among those occupants were the two people he least wanted to see just now. He just hoped-desperately-that Albus would merely pat Fletcher on the head, tell him not to be silly, and dismiss him.

Unfortunately, putting Potter into a classroom full of Slytherins sounded like just the sort of mayhem Albus enjoyed. But . . . perhaps because it was _Potter_ . . .?

Just about all he could do at this point is wait and see. And be prepared to duck, in case Potter or any of his fifth-years figured out just _who_ has suggested this ludicrous course to the DADA instructor. He wasn't sure that even their respect for him would keep them from exacting revenge for what had been, after all, a _really stupid_ thing to say. Especially to a Ravenclaw. _One thing the birdbrains can_ never _seem to learn is how to develop a little something called a sense of humour!_ Even _he_ had one, as vestigial as it often seemed.

"Professor?" A tentative voice. He looked up.

Of course. Certainly the _Gryffindors_ wouldn't have dared approach him, vaunted house courage or no. "Is something wrong?" Draco picked up where Potter's previous interrogative left off.

"Something we can help with?" Potter's eyes had flashed, almost too quickly to be noticed, towards the cloth covering his left forearm.

_To tell or not to tell? Might as well get it over with. Knowing Albus, I can't seriously see him refusing Fletcher's request. Although finding out what his little Golden Boy has been up to might throw him for a loop._ Sadly, that was probably too much to hope for. You see a lot in the hundred-odd years Albus had been alive-and knowing the Headmaster, probably one of the first things he had learned was to cover his surprise. By now, even if he _was_ ever surprised by something, the casual onlooker would never be able to tell.

"I made an . . . unwise . . . remark to Fletcher." He admitted, refusing to look at either of them. Had he, he might have been amused by the nearly identical looks of grudging respect- _very_ grudging-adorning both their faces. "He was complaining about you, Mr. Potter, suggesting that one of my Slytherins had drunk Polyjuice Potion and taken your place."

Potter snorted. "Next time you see him, ask him how that would be possible, seeing as our lessons are more than an hour long, and I never drink anything during class."

At the same time, Draco chirped, "Brilliant idea! Remind me to do that, sometime."

"I wouldn't." Potter advised. "Polyjuice tastes absolutely _awful_." Suddenly the focus of two sharply interested pairs of eyes, he realized that that had _not_ been, perhaps, the brightest thing to say. "Not that I would know, of course . . ." He continued hurriedly.

Neither one looked like they believed him.

". . . And another thing. Slytherin's _primary_ trait is its sneakiness. If one of your House really _was_ posing as me, for whatever strange reason, I'd think they'd make sure to know me well enough to be acting _far_ more like me than I've been acting recently. It would be like practically _begging_ to be caught!"

"And your remark was?" Draco asked hopefully. " 'Get your head out of your ass, Fletcher, none of my Slytherins are _that_ stupid!'?" He paused, then added reflectively, "Well . . . except Crabbe and Goyle. But they wouldn't be able to brew the potion in the first place, so that leaves them out as well."

"Language, Mr. Malfoy." Snape remonstrated. Despite his words, he didn't seem particularly stern. "Unfortunately, no. I instead had the misfortune to say, I quote, 'Just go see the Headmaster and request that Mr. Potter be transferred into the fifth-year Slytherin class. That way you'll have all the worst troublemakers in one spot.' "

"We're the worst troublemakers?" Draco's eyes shone with unshed (fake) tears. He sniffed dramatically. "I didn't know he cared!"

Jamie's eyes widened. "Don't tell me Professor Fletcher thought you were _serious?!_ " He cried.

"Indeed." Snape inclined his head.

"The Headmaster," Jamie began carefully, "would most likely see this as a perfect opportunity to promote inter-House relations."

Draco snorted. "More likely he'd just think the ensuing chaos would be a blast to watch."

Jamie grinned. "Well . . . that too. So I suppose I should be preparing to have my schedule messed with?" He looked thoughtful. "But I don't have any empty class spaces in which to take whatever I'll be shunted out of. Unless I get a T . . . switch into at least one other class with Slytherin," he covered up his slip as well as he could, "this won't work."

_I can't believe I forgot I'm not supposed to know that Time-Turners exist! Crap. I just hope they bought it._ And it seemed that Draco had bought it, although Snape had the look of someone storing away information for future reference (and/or blackmail).

"When do you have DADA?" Draco asked. "We have it Tuesday mornings."

"That's when I have Transfiguration. I have DADA right before this, actually."

"Which is when we have Transfiguration." Draco looked inhumanly pleased with himself. "So it will be a simple flip-flop. What are the odds of that happening?"

"Ask 'Mione if you really want to know." Jamie quipped.

Snape looked from one to the other, puzzled. "Aren't you at all upset?"

"Who, me? Upset?" Jamie cracked his knuckles and grinned, shark-like. "Oh, not at all. It's a compliment, actually. Then again . . . making that sort of assumption _is_ criminally stupid. I suppose I'll just have to . . . make it up to him . . . Tuesday morning." He smiled beatifically.

"I'll bet I can find more pseudo-legitimate chances to shoot a hex in his direction than you." Draco challenged.

"You're on!"

* * *

Jamie ran his hand through the silky black fur. "Mm . . . your fur is almost as soft as Draco's hair."

A violent twitch. "Sorry . . . I forgot again."

From the bed, Parvati turned over onto her stomach facing Jamie, kicking her feet up into the air. "Do I _want_ to know why you know what Malfoy's hair feels like?" Lucia had turned her head and was giving him the same sort of wary look.

He shot her a mildly hostile glance. "Merlin. Is this school populated entirely by people who can't get their minds out of the gutter?"

"Well, I've never heard you refer to him as Draco before." Parvati pointed out logically. "Even in Survival, where you act best towards each other, you still refer to each other by last name."

Jamie pulled at his short ponytail, clearly embarrassed. "We do. Refer to each other by last name, that is. But now that I know him better, I can't keep thinking of him as Malfoy." He ruffled Lucia's fur. "I never would have believed it when we first met, but you were right, Lucia. Draco is a nice person to know."

The coal-black wolf ducked her head out from under his hand, making a noise immediately identifiable as a snort.

"No, he's not that much like your brother. But he's still an interesting person." _Who would have thought that_ I _would be the one defending Draco Malfoy against anyone? How things change . . ._

"Still doesn't explain how you know what Malfoy's hair feels like." Parvati pointed out.

"Oh, that. Dra . . . Malfoy and I got into a knockdown, drag out fight in the Survival room, just after lunch on Tuesday." He smirked at the memory.

One would never anticipate it from the normally icy Slytherin, but when Draco allowed himself to get truly _angry_ , he totally lost control. Avoiding the majority of the blond's blows had been child's play. Especially since, in addition to being out of control, Draco had _far_ less stamina than his adversary-in that, all those years of being chased and beat on by Dudley and his gang had stood Jamie in good stead.

The great store of resentment that had evidently been festering in Draco for the last several days, however, increased the powers of those blows the other _had_ managed to land. Still, he had probably done worse damage to himself, those times he fell down the stairs.

His heart had nearly stopped, though, when the other boy had unexpectedly (most likely as a result of his growing exhaustion) tripped over his own feet and gone careening into the teacher's desk, slamming his head squarely against the edge. Knocked him out, of course.

He had rushed over to inspect the unconscious boy's head immediately, of course, and his heart had only restarted once he determined that there was probably no real damage done. Just a very big bump that would probably pain him for a week or so. Only then had he allowed himself to be hypnotized by the beauty, the silky softness, of his friend's hair. And that was how Snape had found them.

"Never mind." Parvati interrupted. "I take it back; I _don't_ want to know how you made it from punching each other to fondling Malfoy's hair." From Lucia's laid back ears and the look in her crimson eyes, it was clear that she felt the same way. "It probably wouldn't make sense to me anyway."

"I wasn't . . .!" Jamie's expression turned sour as he realized that 'fondling' was actually a rather apt description of the way he had stroked Draco's hair. Even if he hadn't meant it that way. "Oh, never mind." He fluidly stood. " 'Scuse me. I've got History I really ought to be studying." _Call it a strategic retreat. As well as being truth._

He nodded in Parvati's direction. "See you both tomorrow, I suppose."

As soon as he was gone, Lucia pounced on the bed, curling up beside Parvati, head on her paws and eyes mournful. _Oniisan_. Parvati rested her hand on her friend's head, a silent gesture of support.

For a moment, it was almost even enough.

* * *

Hogsmeade weekend! The news raced through Gryffindor Tower, carried every step of the way by excited messengers.

"We're looking into a temporary association with Zonko's; it'll be easier to gain respect and attention when connected to such a prominent name than if we were to try to break into the joke business on our own." Fred was telling Angelina, Alicia, and Katie in one corner of the common room.

The Gryffindor Chasers looked suitably impressed. "Good business sense." Katie commented. "So, I gather you're going to be interviewing or something of that sort at Zonko's while we're in Hogsmeade?"

"But . . . so you won't be with me?" Angelina's lip quivered and her eyes grew wide.

"Um . . . er . . . that is . . ." Fred's face grew red as he tripped over himself attempting to reassure his girlfriend, and ending up saying nothing at all comprehensible.

Angelina grinned. "Oh, stop worrying, silly. I don't mind."

"I doubt we'll be at Zonko's _all_ day, anyway." George looked amused at his twin's predicament. "You two will have plenty of time to sneak off and find a dark corner."

Alicia stood and grabbed George by the ear. "George. My dear friend and fellow Quidditch teammate. Allow me to instruct you on manners. Perhaps it will increase your projected life span."

"Which, as of right now, is roughly a minute after Fred and Angelina get their hands on you." Katie remarked dryly. "I'd go with Alicia. It's probably easier than trying to run with her still attached to your ear."

Jamie came down the stairs at his usual pace, then walked over to Seamus. "What's happening?"

The sandy-haired boy grinned. "Just watching the prelude to George's impending and most likely bloody and gruesome death. Popcorn?" He offered his classmate a half-eaten bag. "Dean introduced it to me. Delicious stuff. Amazing what Muggles can come up with."

Jamie took a few kernels dubiously. "I've never had it before, but it does seem very popular." Popcorn-especially as far as the Dursleys were concerned-was mainly something one eats at movies, never at home. And _he_ , of course, was never allowed to accompany Dudley and his pack of friends to the movies.

Not that he had particularly wanted to. Some of the commercials for movies that he had caught out of the corner of his eye had seemed interesting, but not interesting enough to try to convince his aunt and uncle (a lost cause already) to let him stay near Dudley _willingly_ for over an hour (they'd suspect a trick and forbid him, even if they hadn't already intended to through pure spite).

Chewy. Salty and buttery all wrapped up in one. He licked his lips. "Good. I think I've come to it too late to become truly addicted, though. 'Specially since I think the popcorn-flavoured Every Flavour Beans taste better."

"Heresy!" Dean gasped.

Seamus fished out another handful, tossed it into his mouth and chewed contemplatively. "Hm . . . I prefer the crunchy/chewy texture of the real thing, I think. So what will you be doing in Hogsmeade, Harry?"

The raven-haired boy shrugged. "Walk around. Browse. I don't have anything specific I'm interested in getting." At least he _could_ go to Hogsmeade, now that Sirius was around (vicariously, at least) to sign the forms. He was rather surprised that, so far, no extra restrictions had been placed on their movements. He would have thought, with Voldemort back alive . . .

Eh . . . no use crying over spilt milk. Even if it hadn't been his blood used, Voldemort would have found _some_ way to regain his body. Not like he didn't have plenty of enemies and a few to spare, after all.

Still . . . if he hadn't been caught, if the trap hadn't been intended for him personally, Cedric would probably still be alive. _That_ was the part that wore worst on Jamie. He had moved on after Cedric's death, for the most part-not the least because of the words of Lucia's oniisan-but he still sometimes, despite himself, temporarily backslid into grief and self-pity.

Professor McGonagall appeared in the doorway. "Is everyone ready to go to Hogsmeade?"

A resounding "Yes!" echoed through the stone chamber, and the Transfiguration professor allowed herself a small smile.

"Well then, shall we go?"

* * *

As he had told Seamus he would, Jamie wandered aimlessly through the streets of Hogsmeade. Zonko's did not interest him; he had never quite fully understood the appeal of practical joking, especially now that he no longer had anyone within easy reach who he disliked enough to saddle with such a thing.

For a moment, he had a happy vision of finding a way to send Voldemort a Dungbomb. _That_ would be a practical joke worth doing. He supposed an owl might be able to find the reborn Dark Lord . . . but was it really worth sacrificing the life of that owl just to play a juvenile joke?

Hm . . . but if Voldemort was still based out of the Riddle House-which was, after all, a Muggle place, and thus ought to have a Muggle address . . . set it to delay explosion until a certain person (the Dark Lord, who else?) opened it . . . just send it through the _Muggle_ mail system.

Now _that_ idea had definite appeal. It was a thought to store away for later.

A different glint-sunlight off metal instead of the usual glass-caught his eye and he turned to look on a shop he could have sworn he had never seen before. Matter of fact, nothing in the immediate area looked at all familiar-he must have wandered off and gotten lost (how embarrassing) while ruminating on Dungbombs and Voldemort.

The metal in question took the form of a longish dagger laid out in the display window. The dagger itself seemed made of some sort of steel, most likely; the hilt had more of a silver sheen and was wrapped in dark forest green dragonhide-far less abrasive than it sounded and it didn't wear away nearly as quickly as leather. The hilt itself sported an intricate carving of a fox with tiny emeralds for eyes.

He blinked, noticing for the first time that he was still nearly twenty feet away from the display window. _No one's eyes are_ that _good, are they?_ He walked closer in order to verify what he thought he had seen.

With his face practically shoved against the glass, it was quickly apparent that yes, somehow he _had_ seen what he thought he had seen, from that far away. Except somehow, it was even more compelling from close up.

A shadow fell across him and he whirled, bringing his wand up defensively. A stranger stood there-but not in the distinctive Death Eater cloak. He relaxed, but only slightly. Just because the man didn't _look_ particularly like a Death Eater didn't necessarily mean he wasn't one. Just that there wasn't likely to be a raid going on large enough for Death Eaters to feel comfortable coming out in broad daylight dressed as such.

The man-tallish, topping Jamie probably by a full foot, with sandy blond hair-laughed, and slapped Jamie on the back. "Good reflexes you've got there, kid. Noticed you looking in my window. Seeing as I don't get too many visitors, I figured I'd come see what you found so interesting. Looking to buy something?"

Jamie looked above the doorway, where there was a simple wooden sign holding a crude drawing of a sword and the word 'Larry's'. "So you're Larry?" He hazarded.

"Nah. Larry's great-great-great-grandson or something like that. The name's Michael. What's yours, kid?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Blinked. "Harry." Just recalling his own name seemed like moving through molasses, for some reason. He had been about to say 'Jamie' . . . but that wasn't his _real_ name. Just a label he answered to. _'What's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet' . . ._

"Well, Harry, would you like to come in out of the sun for a bit? Shop around inside some?"

"Increasing the chance that I might buy something?" Jamie grinned. "Why not?"

The inside of the shop was rather small and somewhat cramped by the multitude of weaponry-of _all_ shapes and sizes-stacked against the walls, on tables, hanging from the ceiling . . . Jamie felt right at home.

"So what was it you were so fascinated by in my window?" Michael asked, startling him. He had been looking around so hard he had practically forgotten the other man's presence. "I may have mentioned I don't get all that many customers; that's because this shop has always tended to specialize in 'special' weapons . . . really magical, the sorts of things that appear in Muggle fairy tales and tend to have minds of their own." He grinned. "Then again, the up side is that every person who comes here is almost guaranteed to buy _something_."

Jamie's attention had been caught by something lying on one of the tables; at closer inspection some sort of harness? mechanism? made from the same sort of green dragonhide that wrapped the hilt of the dagger. "What is that?"

The store owner followed his young customer's gaze. "Ah, those. They're wrist guards, of a sort-they also have a sort of trigger mechanism that allows them to hold a paired set of daggers, oh, probably a bit shorter than the length of your forearm. An added benefit is that the mechanism has been permanently charmed to turn itself-and whatever daggers are being held-invisible while it's worn. Or so the inventory list says."

He shrugged. "I don't know for certain. The problem with these is, they're a set size. All the people who have been interested in them so far-not that there were necessarily all that many, but over a few centuries numbers add up-have been unable to wear them properly because they're just the wrong size."

"Hm." Jamie murmured agreeably. He reached out and picked one up, put it on, then repeated the process with the other wrist. He held them up to the light to examine them. "Well, your inventory was right in this much. The holding mechanism seems to have entirely disappeared." Except every now and then he could see this sort of shimmer . . . like the sort of thing you see out of the corner of your eye, but that disappears whenever you look straight at it.

"I'll be damned." Michael breathed. "That's one of the founding artifacts of this store, I'm pretty sure. And _no one_ has ever fit into them before."

Jamie smiled wryly. "I'm special. Unfortunately." To himself. "Sometimes . . . I wonder what it would be like to be normal . . ." He shook himself, then proceeded with sure steps to the dagger in the window, picking it up.

It felt wrong in his hand-even after only two lessons, it were already accustomed to the lighter feel to his scalloped daggers. Yet it was almost an exact match for the length and (if his estimations were correct) weight of Draco's dagger, and the silver and green and the fox motif were an almost exact match for Draco himself. Too close to be a coincidence, in his mind.

Michael eyed the dagger doubtfully. "I think it's a bit too long to fit those wristguards of yours."

"It's not for me. It's for a friend-and _believe_ me, it's perfect for him."

The tall man's eyes flicked quickly from the green and silver of the dagger to the Gryffindor badge proudly displayed on Jamie's robes. He shrugged. "Interesting choice of friends." Digging through another stack, he tossed an object Jamie's way, which the boy deftly caught. "I'm assuming you'll also be wanting the sheath."

"What makes you think I'm buying?" The green-eyed boy asked mildly. A frankly disbelieving Look. He barked a short laugh. "Fine, fine. It wouldn't do for me to break the trend, after all. How much?"

Michael brought out a book. "Due to their extreme age and the fact that this stupid book has never been adjusted for inflation" he made a face "those gauntlets are only sixteen Sickles. The dagger has been with us for nearly as long, but was originally deemed more valuable. Four Galleons."

Jamie took out his purse _(glad I remembered to visit Gringotts last time we were in Diagon Alley . . . though I'm sure it has a branch in Hogsmeade, come to think of it)_ and exchanged five Galleons for a single Sickle in change and some brown paper to wrap the dagger in. "Thank you. Perhaps I'll stop by to visit next time I'm in town."

Michael watched the black-haired student walk away, until at last he was out of sight, an unreadable look in his emerald eyes. Finally he shook his head, and sat back down at the ledger. Taking his quill he marked through two entries:

_Slytherin's Gauntlets_

_Serpent Guardian_

Neither had been priced; it had been the opinion of the founder of the store (seen in the man's carefully preserved diaries) that they, the property of Salazar Slytherin and his blood-bound soulfriend, would never be sold.

He looked at the five golden coins lying in his hand. _Well . . . never say never, as They are wont to say . . ._ Personally, he thought the bit about inflation was a nice touch, especially since it gave him the perfect excuse to keep the price low.

His father (the illegitimate son of a true bastard; it was through his grandmother that the store had been passed down) had always said that he would have been a Slytherin had he attended Hogwarts, after all.

Speaking of his father . . . his old man would most likely be _veerrryy_ interested by this turn of events. As he sat down to write a letter, he began to whistle. Slytherin's Gauntlets going to a childling-a _Gryffindor_ childling, at that!-who knew someone who was a perfect match for the Serpent Guardian. And _he_ had been the one to make the sale.

Who'da thunk?

* * *

"Today, we will be working with mandrakes again." The class groaned loudly, and Professor Sprout beamed her sympathetic smile. "Yes, they can be quite a pain, can't they?"

"They're not so bad." Neville asserted quietly, tentatively touching the leaves of one of the nearest plants. It was here in the greenhouses that the Gryffindor achieved a state of quiet confidence he could not seem to find elsewhere.

"I'm glad you think so, Mr. Longbottom." Sprout's smile was now truly approving. She shared a special bond with Neville not unlike her relationship with the Hufflepuffs she watched over.

Without too much more complaint, all fifteen or so of them-Gryffindor and Ravenclaw alike-went forward to receive their earmuffs. "I thought we were free of these things second year." Lucia groused, though she kept her voice low.

"You had to deal with mandrakes in your second year, too? Our year was the only one in recent history at Hogwarts that did." Hermione said. "I think they're ordinarily taught about early on in third year."

"My class was a special case as well." Lucia replied, uncomfortable. She then pointedly put on her earmuffs, effectively ending the conversation. The rest of them quickly followed her example.

As Jamie secured the muffs over his ears, he became aware of a peculiar buzzing sensation. His vision greyed out and he grabbed for the table as he swayed dizzily. Hermione's face swam into his range of vision, mouthing something-probably "Are you okay?"

_I can't see!_ He tried his best to suppress the panic. Then he realized, he could see-barely. Unlike the perfect vision he had grown used to over the past almost-a-week, he saw mostly blurred patches of color. Even Hermione's face-the only thing reasonably in focus-was extremely fuzzy around the edges.

The weight was removed from his ears as a new face joined Hermione's-Professor Sprout, looking understandably worried. "Mr. Potter? What happened?" Her voice, after the buzzing silence, seemed unnaturally loud.

He sat up _(funny . . . I was standing last time I looked . . .)_ , holding his head. "I . . . don't know . . ." He blinked. He could see again, as perfectly as he had been able to before . . . whatever had happened, had happened.

He slowly stood, expecting at any moment that awful dizziness to return. Nothing. "Whatever it was, I think it's gone now." He said quietly, holding his hand out for the earmuffs.

"You _fainted_ , Harry." Lavender entered the conversation. "You should go lie down for a while. In the Hospital Wing, maybe-perhaps Madam Pomfrey will know what caused it."

"A good idea, Miss Brown." Professor Sprout looked around. "Miss Patil, why don't you escort Mr. Potter to the Hospital Wing?"

"Which one?" Parvati and a Ravenclaw who looked exactly like her chorused.

"Ah . . ." Professor Sprout seemed briefly flustered. "Oh dear. The Ravenclaw."

"Yes ma'am." Padma came forward, blushing and refusing to meet Jamie's eyes. _Oh no . . . not one of the Boy-Who-Lived worshipers . . . maybe she's just shy normally?_ It was definitely quite a difference from Parvati, who had always been rather loud if not usually annoyingly so (unless she was in 'Professor-Trelawney-Worship' mode), and since becoming friends with Lucia was also quite comfortable around him. She never made him feel like the Boy-Who-Lived. Hopefully, that sort of sense ran in the family.

The two of them walked across the grounds in silence, and Jamie began to relax. She hadn't made any sort of move yet-maybe Snape was right, and he was putting too much of an emphasis on his celebrity. His mind drifted back to the incident in the greenhouse.

The strangest thing was, there hadn't been any pain really. When he reopened his eyes, they were just . . . bad again. Much the way they had been when he had been deprived of his glasses previous to that Tuesday. If this was something that came and went . . . ". . . perhaps I should start carrying my glasses around with me again." He mused out loud.

"Your glasses?" The Ravenclaw looked startled. "Aren't you . . ." she peered more closely at his face. "You aren't. How strange. I could have sworn you were wearing your glasses just a moment ago. Why aren't you?"

He frowned, staring through a large tree that provided a beautiful display with its array of brilliant fall colors. "I don't need them anymore." He replied. _Or do I?_

* * *

Thursday morning Minerva McGonagall sat on her desk, a cat for the moment. There were times when she found it easier to think-or to _not_ think-when she was in this form. She couldn't quite say which of the two was her objective just now.

Albus, she suspected, was playing a joke on her. What else could it possibly be, this sudden notification that Harry Potter would be taking Transfiguration with the fifth-year _Slytherins_? Ludicrous.

He hadn't been in the fifth-year Gryffindor class on Tuesday . . . but she had received notification that he had been sent to the Hospital wing Monday afternoon; perhaps he had just been kept there overnight . . .

Professor McGonagall did not like Slytherin. It was her personal opinion that the Serpent House should have been disbanded a long time ago. She endeavoured to hide those feelings for three major reasons.

For one, expressing that opinion would undoubtedly disappoint the Headmaster. What had been a childhood crush on her heartbreakingly handsome Transfiguration Professor (the source, to tell the truth, of her interest in that subject) had become a strangely intertwined mix of respect and idolatry as she first took over his position as Transfiguration Professor and Head of Gryffindor, then ascended to the position of Deputy Headmistress. If there was any one thing that she would work to avoid doing at all costs, it was disappointing Albus.

Then, too, was the niggling knowledge that, despicable the Slytherins might be, but now that she was a professor, she had pledged to do her best to treat all students equally. It was the Gryffindor thing to do, and she was in all was a consummate Gryffindor. Even if she sometimes wished she didn't have a conscience.

And finally it was a way of showing that she was better than her opposite. Everyone knew of Snape's unfair favouring of his own students over all other houses; in that regard he had gained an incredible notoriety among the student body. She, though, was Gryffindor. She was _above_ that sort of favoritism (even if Gryffindor really was the best and deserved it), and she was determined to prove it.

Harry . . . how like his father he had grown. Despite his uncanny physical likeness, in the beginning she had despaired of his ever showing his father's aptitude for the subject dearest to her heart. Perhaps, once or twice . . . but those were brief flashes only, before he descended back into disappointing mediocrity.

But since the beginning of this year, he approached and nearly surpassed Miss Granger in both his knowledge and his expression of the subject. So _very_ much like his father! (Who had been, although she'd be reluctant to admit it, one of her favorite students. How she had wished that she was free to laugh, as the Slytherins came straggling into the room after whatever the Marauders' latest trick had been!)

_Harry Potter_ among _Slytherins_? Hardly.

"I personally prefer using more harmless hexes. Like the Tickling Charm." A voice, carrying easily into the classroom from outside the doorway. She transformed back to human, taking a seat at her desk. "That way, if it goes astray, there's less potential for mayhem."

"How very Gryffindor of you." Draco Malfoy (identical to his father in every way, and _just_ as detestable. Thank _goodness_ he had graduated the year before she started teaching), as always at the head of the line, remarked as he entered the room. 'Gryffindor', as always when uttered by members of the opposing house, took on the tone of an insult. "We just figure that everyone ought to know well enough by now how to fend for themselves."

"That's fine, among _you_ lot." The first voice replied. "You've probably been force-fed paranoia and attack reflexes through your mothers' milk."

"Potter has a point." The rest of the fifth-years entered; Blaise Zabini (not nearly as bad as Malfoy; must be because his mother had been a Ravenclaw) was speaking. "Not that I have anything against eliminating Gryffindors on general principles, but getting expelled for severely maiming another student _would_ put a crimp in my secret plans for world domination."

His voice, by the end of the sentence, so dripped with sarcasm that even _she_ would have had a hard time convincing herself that he was being serious. Still, saying what you mean while making it sound like you didn't mean it was _just_ the sort of thing that a Slytherin would do. So she wouldn't put it past Zabini to actually have designs for becoming the next Voldemort. Even though Malfoy seemed more the type . . .

They all-including Harry, she was disgusted to note-laughed. "If you succeed, do please get rid of that incompetent moron currently holding the position of Minister of Magic." The green-eyed boy begged.

"All right." Zabini nodded. "But who should I choose?"

"How about Draco?" Pansy Parkinson (ugh. She was in love with a _Malfoy_. What else need be said?) suggested. _I'm sure she'd love to be the Minister of Magic's trophy wife._

Noting that it was now nine o'clock, Professor McGonagall decided to cut that line of speculation off _right now_. Especially since Harry (what had they _done_ to the poor boy?!) seemed to be on the verge of agreeing with Parkinson's proposal.

_The only good thing about having Draco Malfoy as Minister of Magic would be the fact that it would royally piss off Lucius to realize that his son had effortlessly accomplished what he's been scheming towards for more than ten years now._ She cleared her throat. "Class, I believe, has begun."

The six Slytherins and lone Gryffindor tumbled into their seats with pleasing alacrity. Harry was sandwiched between Malfoy and Zabini and, she noted, horrified, did not seem the least bit disturbed by this arrangement.

_Perhaps this is all just a very bad dream . . ._

* * *

"Conference." Pansy Parkinson called as they escaped the Transfiguration classroom.

"Stay over there, this'll only take a second." Draco instructed Jamie, his eyes shining brightly, only reaffirming Jamie's suspicion that the blond Slytherin was Up To Something.

The other six crowded over to the other side of the hallway-well out of audible range; they _were_ Slytherin, after all-and held a whispered debate. Jamie just slouched, hands in pockets, feeling increasingly left out and wondering why he was letting it bother him so much.

He rubbed his right thumb along the left wristguard, a nervous habit he had picked up over the past few days. _I'm afraid they're talking about me._ He realized, watching the animated group through hooded eyes. _Specifically, talking derisively. Merlin. If anyone had told me I would_ ever _be nervously hoping for acceptance from_ Slytherins _. . . I really_ was _shallow, wasn't I?_

Draco's approach brought his head back up from where it had fallen as he woolgathered. "Harry? We'd like you to come with us."

Whatever the test had been, evidently he'd passed. He tried to suppress the joy that bid fair to become an ear-to-ear grin, eventually compromising with a small smile. "I'd be glad to. Draco."

They led him downwards, towards the dungeons. Not surprising-that was where Slytherin life revolved around, with the exception of meals and other classes. As he continued to walk along in silence, he eventually recognized the route as one he had taken only once before. _Showing me the entrance to their House . . . that takes a lot of trust._ Especially _for a Slytherin, the House that has done its hardest to keep itself hidden._

Finally they reached the 'dead-end' stone wall that was the entrance to Slytherin. Without even a pretense of secrecy-as if Jamie was just another of their own!-Blaise Zabini stepped forward. "Integrity."

Jamie muffled a snicker.

To his left, Millicent Bulstrode rolled her eyes. "Dumbledore is full of it."

"I had wondered," the raven-haired Gryffindor mused, face straight, "if the Headmaster had had an influence on the passwords for any of the other Houses."

"There's a difference?" Crabbe asked.

"Between that and the sort of passwords the Gryffs usually use?" Goyle clarified.

"Yeah, actually. Gryffindor passwords tend to more resemble Dumbledore's 'words of wisdom' than the sorts of ideals espoused." Even 'Nitwit' had made its rounds, embarrassingly enough. 'Oddment', 'Blubber', and especially 'Tweak' were old favorites, used at least once, and often more frequently than that, a year.

Pansy Parkinson laughed. It was a strangely compelling sound, not at all the way he had expected her laugh to sound. "Typical."

"We _could_ have this conversation _inside_ , you know." Draco noted impatiently. Jamie hadn't even noticed the door opening. Obediently, the group of fifth-years trooped in.

He waved his hand at the nearly deserted common room, the few people around glancing up with well-masked curiosity. "Welcome, Harry, to the Serpents' Lair."

"So the 'Boy-Who-Lived' passed muster?" One of the shadowed figures, previously sitting in one of the chairs, padded forward. He was huge and solidly built, making Jamie feel like a mouse standing up to a lion. Or perhaps an anaconda would be a more appropriate comparison. He looked vaguely familiar, but Jamie couldn't quite recall from where.

"In spades. Harry is in the same league as Draco."

"Then it is indeed a pleasure to meet you, Harry." He held out a huge hand. "I'm Chris. Chris Flint. You probably knew my brother." Yes. Now Jamie could recognize the similarity he had seen before. "I'm the Slytherin Head Boy."

Jamie frowned. He could have sworn that the Head Boy this year was a Ravenclaw. Not anyone he knew well, but certainly not a Slytherin.

"The _Slytherin_ Head Boy." Millicent rumbled. "It's a strictly in-House, unofficial title. He's more or less the student equivalent of the Head of House."

His frown disappeared as he nodded. That made a certain amount of sense.

Chris Flint shook his head. "Merlin, Harry, how did you ever manage to get sorted into Gryffindor?"

Jamie grinned. "First time I met Draco, here, he reminded me of my cousin-a nasty, spiteful, spoiled brat. And _he_ was extolling the virtues of Slytherin!" Everyone laughed as Draco flushed to the roots of his hair. "Good thing he seems to have improved with age." Again the laughter.

"Too, Hagrid fed me some crap about how all dark wizards come from Slytherin." All laughter quieted immediately and several sets of eyes narrowed. Plotting a bit of subtle revenge, most likely. "He might have believed it; I personally would not be at all surprised if Dumbledore had put him up to it."

"I repeat." Millicent muttered. "Dumbledore is full of it."

"I of course had all of those nice black and white ideas of good and evil, but knowing nothing about magic, I was desperately afraid that I would turn out bad." A shrug. "So when the Hat suggested Slytherin, I fought against it with all my might."

An admiring whistle from one of the chairs. "Impressive. I should know-I wanted to go to Ravenclaw."

Jamie looked thoughtful. "Not so much. I _did_ fit in Gryffindor fairly well for the first several years. I just don't so much anymore."

"Looks like I'm not the only one who has improved with age." Draco smirked, and Jamie smirked back. "Erk! You're doing it again!"

"Shut up, Draco." He was beginning to believe that Draco kept comparing him to Snape merely in order to annoy him.

He was right, of course.

"I'm sure you're probably curious as to why you were brought here." Chris continued.

"Mildly so, yes." Jamie agreed affably.

"Draco, as a prefect, is part of our council. He came to us about a week ago with tales of a Gryffindor that acted like a Slytherin-and might soon be joining the Slytherins in two classes." Sheepish grin from the direction of the blond. "We've been observing you since then-once Draco was induced to tell us exactly _which_ Gryffindor he was talking about."

A pause. "Our council elected the fifth-year Slytherin group to be the ones to make the final decision, and that's what they did today." He went back to his chair, returning with a bundle of black, a familiar green and silver badge proudly shining from the top. He handed the bundle to Jamie. "Welcome to the Serpent House, Harry Potter. Welcome to Slytherin."

Unshed tears shone in his eyes, as an unfamiliar feeling welled up in his heart. Something that he had felt the first time he saw Hogwarts in all its nightly glory, the first time he had entered Gryffindor Tower. A feeling that had slowly faded from that red and gold environment, but that caused a nearly physical pain every time he was forced to board the Hogwarts Express on the trip back to London in June.

A feeling that had suffused him to a lesser extent as he leaned against the threadbare couch in Professor Snape's rooms, with the professor sitting in a small circle of warm light at his desk while Lucia slumbered beside him on the couch.

_Home._ The feeling said. _Family._

"You may be Gryffindor to the rest of the world, but here you are, and always will be, from this point on, Slytherin."

_Yes. I'm home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 22 December 2002


	10. Animagi, Death Eaters, and Slytherins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lbr, I have not been an active participant in Harry Potter fandom for years now and I _still_ think the American rename to _Sorcerer's Stone_ was nonsense. :D 
> 
> ==
> 
> *hyper bounce!* I got a full set of the British version of the Harry Potter books for Christmas! Well . . . they didn't arrive until around New Years, but . . . details, details.
> 
> It demonstrates the depths of my fanaticism-and the sad fact that I am doomed to be a member of that nation that claims to love freedom of speech and fervently embraces censorship-that just holding in my hands a book entitled _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_ is enough to send me into transports of ecstasy. Well, almost.
> 
> Not a day goes by when I don't find further proof of my obsession with this series.
> 
> Why else would I be writing fanfiction, after all?
> 
> By now is there anyone who doesn't know that Harry Potter doesn't belong to me?
> 
> *looks around*
> 
> *crickets chirp*
> 
> Good.

They were a strange looking group. Parvati had shrunk to nearly half her usual size and was covered in a light film of darkish brown fur. Draco was perhaps a bit smaller than usual, but looked otherwise the same-until one noticed the luxurious tail of long, soft white fur. Jamie no longer had arms, but instead a pair of large, deeply black wings. He, like Parvati, was about half his normal size.

"Sso . . . I sstill can't believe it. A dog, and a Labrador at that, not even one ass impresssive ass Padfoot." Two sharp teeth extended, showing the reason for Jamie's lisp.

"Shut up." Parvati returned sourly. "At least I don't suck other people's blood like some parasite." Her canines were rather larger as well, but no where near as sharp and pointed as Jamie, who seemed to be taking the 'vampire' part of 'vampire bat' a bit too far.

"Tsk. Is someone feeling a bit testy?" Draco looked amused. All his teeth were a bit sharper than usual, but none had changed to the extent of Jamie's or even Parvati's. "Who's Padfoot?"

"Just an old friend of mine that Parvati is . . . slightly acquainted with." Jamie answered easily. A bit _too_ easily.

_Yet another secret that he hides from me . . . at times like these, it's hard to believe he was ever a true Gryffindor._

Slowly, Parvati's teeth and her fur receded as she grew back to her original size. She lay back, spread-eagled. "That . . . transforming, even partially . . . really takes it out of me."

"It getss eassier eventually." Jamie observed. His wings shrunk back into arms and he began flipping through the journal. "For only having been doing this for about a week, we're actually pretty far along. Or so the journal says."

Observing the trend, Draco also allowed himself to return to normal. "Well, how old was the person who wrote this book? Maybe the younger you are, the easier it is."

Jamie closed his eyes, trying to recall fragments of conversation. "It's a good theory, but in this case, false. They were in fifth year when they accomplished the transformation too; I'm not sure exactly how old they were when this book was written, but if I have my dates right, I _think_ the end of seventh year."

"How do you know this 'Prongs' person?" Parvati asked. "It's obviously a nickname. Is it someone I know too?"

"I ought to know Prongs. Know _of_ him, at least. He was my father, after all."

* * *

"Halloween Masquerade Party." Lucia read the bulletin off the community board in the Gryffindor common room.

"Why am I not surprised?" Jamie asked wryly. "Does it give rules on magic use?"

"I expect it's expected." Parvati remarked. "Where would we find _real_ costumes around here- _reasonably_ priced-after all?"

"Parvati's probably right. The notice says something about all magical illusions being stripped away at midnight." Lucia read. "That way, people would then find out who it was that they had been spending time with."

"Yet another of Dumbledore's infamous attempts at promoting inter-House cooperation, I'm sure." Jamie studied the ceiling.

"And what's wrong with that?" Lucia bristled.

"Nothing at all!" Jamie sighed. "I was just making an observation. You may not believe me, but I'm really _not_ out to get Dumbledore. I like and admire the man, I just have a slightly different view of him than you do."

Lucia's stony gaze showed that she was not convinced. "Regardless, I wish you would stop speaking disparagingly about him in my presence."

Parvati opened her mouth, then closed it. It hurt her to see the two of them angry at each other and she wanted to stop the argument . . . but how? They both believed that they were right, and nothing anyone could say could change that belief.

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Alright then."

"Good."

They both turned and walked away. Lucia up to the fifth-year girls' dorm, Jamie through the portrait and out of the Tower altogether. _Off to find Malfoy, no doubt._

Working with the two of them on becoming an Animagus had been quite . . . illuminating. She doubted anyone else had even guessed at the depths of their friendship, even those actually privy to it through the Survival class. Certainly no one else outside of that class had a clue-both were accomplished at projecting the illusion that their rivalry was still as strong as ever.

She admitted she didn't see the charm. Malfoy might seem more approachable with a fluffy white tail and his face open as he laughed at, or more often with, Jamie, but . . . this was still Malfoy under consideration. _Malfoy!_

No, she could not understand why Jamie was willing to associate with Malfoy any more than he had to, much less why he would choose to share a secret so immense as the Animagus transformation with him; she could, however, recognize that this was so. She wondered if even Lucia knew how close the two had grown.

Then again, knowing how Lucia still flinched at even oblique mentions of the Slytherin, it would most likely be best to not even mention it.

On the other hand . . . Ron and Hermione would probably have heart attacks.

* * *

Jamie was not, in fact, headed directly for Draco. He stalked through the hallways, willfully suppressing his anger. _Damn it, why can't she_ understand _?! I do_ not _live to put down Dumbledore! Why can't she believe me?_ The last, little more than a plea.

It had seemed like a dream at first. She would be like a sister to him; they could share everything because they had lived practically the same life. They would be like twins, except even closer. He remembered that one time when their combined efforts at _Lumos_ had created a light so brilliant it seemed almost like a second sun. _That_ is what it was supposed to have been like.

And, obviously, a dream was all it had been. For instead they engaged in this strange seesaw where they could go from practically reading each others' thoughts one moment to verbally clawing each others' eyes out another-and in two consecutive moments, even.

 _You're such a fool, Potter._ Idly, he wondered when his little 'voice of logic' had started speaking with Draco's voice.

"Well?" Oh. That was Draco. "Stop standing around like a fool, Potter, and come on in." He realized with a start that he was standing in front of a doorway he had not previously seen, on the path to the Slytherin 'Tower' but not nearly all the way yet.

He blinked and followed his friend into a room tastefully decorated in black and forest green, with a little silver here and there. "What . . .?"

"My room." He answered simply. At Jamie's puzzled look, he spelled it out. "I'm a prefect, remember? I could hardly _not_ be." He waved a hand regally. "So. Sit. Make yourself at home."

Jamie sat gingerly in one of the chairs-the same sort of tall-backed, barely-upholstered, supremely uncomfortable-looking monstrosity as decorated the Slytherin common room. And abruptly sprang back to his feet as he felt pleasantly warm, plush, soft cloth instead.

Draco burst out laughing. "The look on your face . . ."

Jamie looked from the chair to the laughing Slytherin. Chair. Draco. Chair. Finally, he managed to get out, "Are _all_ the chairs in the common room like this too?"

Draco tutted. "Rule number one for being Slytherin-appearances can be, and usually are, deceiving. Now sit back down. I promise it won't bite."

He slumped back into the chair and sighed, partly in relief and partly to release some of that pent-up frustration-much of which had disappeared in the shock generated by Draco's trick chair. "Thanks. I needed that."

"So what's got you all worked up?"

Another sigh, this one wholly of frustration. "Lucia. She was being über-Gryffindor again. And then her Gryffindor-ness and the Gryffindor-ness of the Tower around me in general got to be too much, to the point where I would have liked nothing more than to scream."

A small grin. "So I decided to come down here, where at least if I started screaming, 'Gryffindors' would be an adequate excuse."

Draco grinned in answer. "It would, wouldn't it. And the Lair is soundproofed, so you wouldn't have a thousand people bursting in on you, thinking you were being kidnapped by the Dark Lord or something, either."

"That _would_ be nice." Jamie hummed. ". . . unless, of course, I actually _was_ being kidnapped by Voldemort."

"He'd have to get here, first." Draco pointed out. "And Hogwarts is impregnable."

"There are other ways of getting inside than just tearing down the walls. I doubt you honestly believe that not _one_ of the students in the entirety of the school is working for Him. At the bidding of their parents, if nothing else."

"Here we go again, equating Junior Death Eater to Slytherin. I thought we were past that stage, Harry."

"When did I say _anything_ about Slytherin?" Jamie demanded, stung. "In fact, I believe we've had this argument before. Yes, Slytherins are slightly more likely to be Death Eaters or Dark Wizards of the take-over-the-world sort, but they are by no means the only ones. The Dark Wizards are more _likely_ to be Slytherin, yes, because the stigma against our House alienates them from the world, or because their ambitions-the ambitions that make them suitable for Slytherin in the first place-lead them to choose the power promised by the Dark. But _I_ was speaking in general."

He folded his arms over his chest. "And there you go, just like Lucia, jumping to conclusions all over the place with not a _shred_ of real evidence."

Draco regarded him expressionlessly for a long moment. "I detest being compared to a Gryffindor, but . . . you're right. I apologize." Those two words sounded like they were being forcibly pulled from Draco, but at least he said them. _At least he recognized that the mistake was not solely mine._ "In all fairness, though, can you really blame me? Less than a year ago, after all, you probably _would_ have meant it that way."

"Less than a year ago, I doubt we would have been having this conversation to begin with. Certainly not in your rooms-after all, 'less than a year ago', you weren't a prefect." So Draco had apologized. That qualifying statement had nearly stripped away all the benefit gained. _I would have thought that_ he _of all people would have seen how much I've changed since then._

"All right! You've made your point!" Draco threw up his hands in capitulation, muttering something of which 'stubborn' was the only intelligible word. "Things, situations, people . . . they all change. I _should_ have remembered and taken into account that you _have_ changed, quite drastically, since then."

And for the first time, Jamie began to understand why it was that he had become such fast friends with Draco in such a short time.

On the surface, their friendship seemed highly improbable, even impossible. Slytherin and Gryffindor, a barrier that had melted away due to his own changes, but even the remnants of which ought to have been enough to preclude either of them from even considering entering into such a friendship.

Draco was, to put it simply, something of a spoiled brat. Having grown up the ignored and even derided cousin of another such brat had given Jamie a great dislike for the species. James Potter had been pureblooded, but as far as most people knew, Lily Evans, though a witch, had not a drop of wizarding blood in her-making Jamie nominally a half-blood, which one would think was an important consideration for Draco, considering how much the blond tended to harp on the subject at times.

Draco depended on his father almost completely, even allowing the man to think for him, it seemed at times. He seemed to be breaking away now-in their private conversations, at least, he hardly ever mentioned his father, and even in public his references had fallen off noticeably. Still, raised as he was where he, himself, was the only one he could depend on, that lack of independent thought bothered Jamie. He couldn't understand being willing to live that way-it was just too foreign.

Last but certainly not least, the great topic that they both skirted around but never directly touched, the last and greatest barrier that should have made any friendly contact between the two of them completely impossible.

Voldemort.

Draco was a Malfoy. His father-the man he apparently idolized and the one whom he would almost certainly follow in the footsteps of-was undeniably a Death Eater, most likely one high up in the hierarchy thereof. And Jamie was the 'Boy-Who-Lived', the instrument of Voldemort's first downfall and almost certainly Public Enemy Number One to all followers of the Dark Lord.

A great prize. If Draco were to betray Jamie to Lucius Malfoy, both Malfoys' positions with the Dark Lord would be assured. In no way should Jamie even consider trusting Draco. It was an incredibly stupid move . . . yet he did.

He doubted he would ever tell Draco exactly how much he trusted the blond, though. It was his way of compensating for his own stupidity in trusting in the first place. As it was, they both maintained an active stalemate-neither mentioned Voldemort or the Death Eaters; he sometimes got the impression that they were taking what friendship they could from each other while they could, as the shadow of Voldemort hovered just out of sight.

And Jamie began to understand just why it was that he was willing to accept from Draco what the other boy was willing to give; willing to give to the other boy only what Draco was willing to accept, instead of pushing for a friendship more solidly based, more stable. It was because Draco had done something no one else had done: he had, in his own offhanded way, accepted him.

He acknowledged the part of Jamie that was still Gryffindor, even if that acknowledgment took the form of relentless teasing whenever Jamie was acting 'too Gryffindor'. He actively nurtured the side of Jamie that was Slytherin. Most importantly, he knew that Jamie had changed, he noticed the change, and he was willing to adjust his perceptions to fit the new Jamie.

Most of his friends he didn't think had even noticed the change and those few that had, ignored it, interacting instead with their outdated perceptions of Jamie. Even Draco had fallen into that trap during their conversation just before this.

However, Draco alone had done something he would never have expected from the normally haughty Malfoy. He had recognized his mistake . . . and he had apologized. And _that_ small difference made all the difference in the world. It made all the uncertainty, hovering blackly on the horizon, that plagued their friendship worthwhile.

"What are you grinning about, Harry?"

Sometimes, it was the small things that mattered the most.

"Nothing in particular, Draco. Just thinking how lucky I am to know you."

* * *

"Are you sure you want me with you?" Still immersed to an extent in her resentment of Jamie's constant putting down of the Headmaster-for that's _exactly_ what it was, no matter _how_ he protested otherwise. She had ears, after all, and they were in perfect working condition, thankyouverymuch!-Lucia almost didn't catch her friend's hesitant query.

"Parvati, why are you so nervous? It's just a _pleasant_ " she stressed the word "afternoon tea with Remus, not anything of earthshaking importance. 'Snuffles' may not even be there-though you know I want the two of you to meet eventually. You're my best friend and he's Jamie's godfather . . . the closest thing I have to a real father in this world."

"I . . . it's just . . . what if he recognizes me?" She demanded. "He _was_ an Auror, right?"

"Who, Remus? No, I don't think so . . . although I admit I don't know all that much about his life."

"No, Siri-Snuffles!"

"Perhaps . . . he does seem rather the type, though probably a great deal of his crusading attitude has to do with being wrongfully imprisoned you-know-where." Lucia shook her head. "I still don't understand what this has to do with him _recognizing_ you. You were barely even _born_ , then."

"Not me. My name. My father . . . he . . ." She trailed off.

Lucia cocked her head, puzzled. She really didn't know much about her friend's family life. Only that her twin Padma was her only sibling and that her parents were divorced and they lived with their mother.

Parvati took a deep breath. "Myfatherwasadeatheater." It rushed out, all in that single breath, nearly incomprehensibly. "So Snuffles might recognize the surname and then he'd think that I was one too . . ."

Lucia reeled back against the wall, trying to cope with her shock. _Parvati's_ father? A _Death Eater_?! How was that possible? She _knew_ Parvati . . . or at least, she had thought she knew her . . . and the other Gryffindor was about as far from being a Death Eater as one could humanly get. And she had one as a father? "How . . .?"

"How what, Harry? _Please_ say you don't think I'm one too!" Through the haze of shock surrounding Lucia, Parvati's voice sounded frantic. "Because I'm _not!_ I'm _nothing_ like my father!"

 _Parvati_ a Death Eater? She almost laughed at the thought. "Ridiculous."

Hearing her own voice snapped her most of the way out of the shock . . . for a moment, she had forgotten that for nearly fourteen years of her life, she too had had a Death Eater for a father. And now she remembered too how alone she had felt when nearly the whole of Gryffindor had refused to associate with her simply because of who her father was.

Her voice strengthened. "Of course you're not a Death Eater, Parvati. The thought is absolutely ridiculous. And I'll soundly smack anyone who says otherwise. Why, _I'd_ be more likely to go Dark than you. At least you weren't _raised_ by your Death Eater father."

"Oh yeah . . ." She laughed weakly. "I keep on forgetting. We _are_ kind of in the same boat, aren't we?" A small smile. "Thanks, Harry . . . for understanding, I mean. It really means a lot to me. I've . . . never told anyone else before."

"It was nothing." Lucia looked uncomfortable, realizing just how close she _had_ come to rejecting her friend. "As you said, we're in the same boat. And we'll fight together for the glory of the Light!" A grin. "We are Gryffindors, after all." She started walking.

Parvati followed, eyes sad. _Being Gryffindor doesn't make us invincible . . . or necessarily always on the right side. Living the life she has lived, how is it that she remains so oblivious? I think she knows that not all Slytherins are bad guys, but I'm not sure she realizes that not all Gryffindors are good guys._

Her friend whirled around to face her suddenly and winked. "And don't worry about Snuffles. If necessary, I'll smack him too."

Her somber mood was dispelled as Parvati began to laugh. _No, the world's not as black and white as she sees it . . . but . . . she's still right sometimes. Together, how can we possibly lose?_

* * *

The moment the two of them entered through the door, it began again. Remus looked at her for the briefest moment before his eyes flashed away, off to the side and down. His head bent only the slightest bit, but it was still a clear implication of submission and guilt and remorse.

All her irritation at Jamie roared back in and was directed towards a new victim. As soon as her friend made it through the door, she closed it hard. It made a very loud and quite effective slam.

"Stop that."

Werewolf and dog alike had wide eyes and almost scared looks on their faces as they stared at the incensed fifth-year. "Stop what?" Remus finally managed, eyes fixed on an area slightly to the right and in front of her shoes.

"Stop feeling so guilty. Stop avoiding my eyes as if you're scared to death of what you might see." She took his face between her hands and very deliberately locked eyes with him. "I don't blame _my_ Remus Lupin; the circumstances involved made it entirely my fault, and I _certainly_ don't blame you."

"I know." Quietly, his golden-brown eyes still locked on hers as if mesmerized. "But . . . it's hard. Seeing you is seeing evidence that _somewhere_ , in some world, some version of myself actually passed the curse of lycanthropy on to someone else . . . something I had sworn never to do."

He searched her face. "Is my other self-the Remus of your world-really so different? Two years ago, I only accepted the teaching job because of the steady supply of Wolfsbane Potion available. Was there none at your Hogwarts?"

"Remus, you're one of the few people that, as far as I can tell, has not changed _at all_ between worlds. My Remus made exactly the same vow, and I have no doubt that he would have _never_ come to teach at Hogwarts if the Headmaster had not been able to convince you that the students would be completely safe from you on the full moon."

She shook her head. "Unfortunately, no one knew that when you transformed, there is a moment-in the middle of the transformation-before the soothing effects of the Wolfsbane kick in. And one full moon I was stupid enough to come try to find you for help with one of my assignments . . . and walked in at just that exact moment. It _couldn't_ have been your fault."

Parvati sat on the floor near the big black dog and ruffled his fur. "I'm glad they're having this out now. Professor Lupin has been _really_ annoying Harry with the way he constantly avoids her, which I hope will stop after this conversation. And, too, I think it's something he really needs to hear, whether or not he knows it. Don't you think so, Mr. Black?"

The dog stiffened and his hackles rose as he stared at Parvati. "Don't worry. I'm not telling anyone. I mean, I was ready to go running to the Headmaster shrieking my head off when I first overheard Harry and . . . er . . . Harry, the other one, talking about you."

Suspicious Look. "Okay, fine. I was eavesdropping. Details, details. Anyway, Harry-this one-took me aside and explained the situation."

Suddenly a man sat where the dog had been. "And you believed her?"

"Yes, I believed her." She began ticking points off on her fingers. "For one thing, I trust her to tell me the truth. Another thing-I trust Professor Lupin to be sensible enough to _not_ hide a true mass murderer, whether or not he's an old friend from school. And finally, I examined recent events."

She spread her hands. "You're right here inside Hogwarts and have been for nearly a month-at least. This is the perfect opportunity for you to go on another killing spree-or at least knock the Headmaster or the other Harry off. If you were really a Death Eater, you'd do that because it would practically guarantee that you would be back in favor with You-Know-Who when you decided to return. Yet, I haven't heard of a single injury worse than a broken arm happening to the school as a whole, and Professor Dumbledore and Harry are both in perfect health."

Sirius leaned back against a chair. "Nah. If I were to plot killing anyone as important as _that_ for the bastard, I'd wait until Christmas. Or at least Halloween. Especially if it was Harry-can you imagine? The Boy-Who-Lived on that day, dies on that day fourteen years later. That sort of irony is just perfect for Him."

"I suppose I ought to stick close to Harry-both of them-and keep them away from suspicious people this Halloween, then." Parvati leaned back as well, keeping her tone deliberately jokingly light. "Thanks for the advance tip as to when you're going to attack." A wink.

He shook his head in a rather approving fashion. "Even if she doesn't recognize the relationship on her end, this Harry is like a goddaughter to me. I'm glad she has a friend like you."

Parvati took a deep breath. _Now or never . . ._ She liked Sirius Black and even if she didn't know how he'd react to her parentage, she also knew it would have to come out sooner or later . . . so it might as well be sooner. "Would you still say that . . ." She looked at her hands, afraid of what she might see in his face. ". . . if you knew my father was a Death Eater?"

"Are _you_ a Death Eater?" His voice was gentle.

"Of course not!" She spluttered, head shooting up.

"Then no. It makes no difference at all." Sirius had a faraway look in his eyes. "I have learned some things, over the years." He turned to look at Remus, now sitting in a chair next to Lucia. The two were still talking in low voices. "Did you know that Remus' father was one, too? He was caught and given the Dementor's Kiss about a year after I was imprisoned in Azkaban, I think."

"I assume Harry has told you the entire sad story?" A nod. "That's why I suspected Remus of being that bastard's agent all those years ago. I was saddened, of course, but I figured that between being raised by one and being a 'Dark Creature', he could hardly _not_ be a Death Eater."

A short, humourless bark of laughter. "Twelve years in Azkaban taught me just how wrong I had been."

* * *

"I guess there's been a lot going on in the story recently." Ron lifted his head from the chess strategy book he was rereading for about the tenth time to look at Hermione. Sitting in the chair across from him, she too was immersed in a book-some tome about theoretical magic that he was sure he would never be able to understand even if he tried.

"Story?" Hermione blinked. "Oh . . . are you talking about my little spiel about us being part of some cosmic epic? I _was_ joking."

"So was I." Ron leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. "Are you sure you're not supposed to be in Ravenclaw? They take themselves too seriously too."

Hermione just raised an eyebrow, pointedly ignoring the offhanded insult. "And some people don't take themselves seriously enough." She returned mildly. "So, what prompted you to say that, joke or not?"

"Oh . . ." He returned his gaze to her. "Just trying to remember one major fight we've had since that. And us fighting _is_ a sign that nothing else important is going on, I believe we decided."

Hermione smiled. "So we did." The smile disappeared. "Unfortunately, that tendency to argue seems to have been passed on to the two Harrys."

Ron winced, having caught the edges of a couple of their fights himself. "Yeah. I really feel sorry for Parvati-she's almost always with Harry Evans, so she gets caught in the middle of nearly all of their fights."

Hermione nodded, her face sympathetic. "I've seen her . . . she looks like she feels so helpless."

" _I_ feel helpless." Ron frowned. "You know, we're really not Harry's best friends in more than name anymore, so I don't feel I quite have the right to interfere. But . . . as much as I hate to admit it, the two of them are scarily alike. It's not right that they should fight this much."

Hermione cracked a grin. "Whenever I see them together, I always have a hard time refraining from asking Harry where he ordered a clone from-and where he found a scientific institute advanced enough to not only clone a human being, but to make him a _female_ clone-and artificially grow it to the point that it was at the same age. You're right-they are really _that much_ alike, at least in looks."

"Even down to the fact that they both have facial scars." As he usually did, Ron tuned out a large part of her scientific-technical-Muggle-speak-but whatever klones were, if they were people who were practically identical (and not twins by birth), the two Harrys _definitely_ applied.

"There's something strange about her." Ron voiced once again his concerns. "I can't quite put a finger on it . . . but _something_ is out of place about her." He stared at his shoes. "Which is why I can't quite believe that I _trust_ her. Rather a lot, actually." His voice grew softer as he continued.

"It's because she's so much like Harry." Hermione supplied quietly. ". . . I know. I feel it too."

"No, it's not that." A sudden, violent shake of his head. Then, dawning comprehension. ". . . it's because she's so much like _how Harry was_. We both noticed how distant Harry has been, how much he changed over the summer-and I'm not talking about the purely physical changes, either. You've seen him, too."

"Sometimes, he looks trapped." Hermione stared into the fireplace, at this point in the day only charred logs stacked upon one another. "As if Gryffindor stifles him. And he's always disappearing."

"Hermione . . . you're not seriously trying to imply . . ."

A genuinely startled look. "You thought I meant . . . Goodness, no! Harry is strange and distant, but I can't believe he'd ever turn evil. Even if he were tempted, he has too much against Voldemort personally to ever turn."

Ron smiled, relieved. "Good. But, you see what I'm getting at? She may have chosen Parvati instead of you and I, and Merlin knows she has her distant moments as well, but as a whole Harry Evans is far more approachable than our Harry. More warm. More . . . more like Harry was."

Hermione nodded slowly. "Yesss. I believe you may have hit the nail on the head with this one, Ron."

An irreverent grin. "Well, you can't _always_ be the one who's right."

* * *

"Are they still at it?"

"Yup."

"Merlin!"

"My sentiments exactly."

Lucia and Cho sat together, leaning against the wall, with too little energy left to do anything but just sit there and blankly watch Jamie and Draco spar. It was nearly the end of the class period, and in all that time the pair in question had taken only one break, and that a short one. "I've been doing this for over two years, and I _still_ don't have as much stamina as he does."

"He's Slytherin. If _anyone_ is perfectly suited for this sort of defensive training, a Slytherin is." Cho remarked.

Lucia did not try to hide her blank look, and Cho blinked. "Duh. You were talking about Harry! Sorry! Yeah . . . that is a bit strange." Her eyes narrowed. "Wait a second. You said you've been doing this for over two years . . ."

Lucia paled a bit, and hastily averred, "Back at my school . . . in Japan . . . we had a course very similar to this. Although we never learned with quite such intensity . . ." She frowned. "Come to think of it, all we really did was learn the basics of hand-to-hand and a bunch of relatively useful weapons. Just enough to boost our chance of survival if we ever lost our wands, but nothing so intense as this."

Cho nodded. "Well, there's part of your answer-you don't have much stamina because you haven't been in this sort of situation before-not even in your Japanese version of this class." Her eyes returned to the two sparring figures. "I still haven't the faintest idea why Harry _does_ have that stamina, though."

"He disappears a lot." Lucia brooded. "I wouldn't put it past him to come up here and practice. 'Vati mentioned that she saw him, daggers in hand, when she came up to get her essay written for this class . . . Sunday, I think it was. Two, three weeks ago; whenever it was that that essay was assigned." She shook her head. "It doesn't seem like that long ago . . . time passes so quickly . . ."

"It does have that tendency." Cho agreed. "I still can't believe I'm in sixth year; it feels like just yesterday that I was boarding the Hogwarts Express for the first time, my heart in my throat, afraid and excited all at once."

". . . hoping desperately to be put into Slytherin, so that for once in my life my father would be proud of me . . ." Lucia's eyes had a distant look to them before she snapped back to the real world, indicating her house badge with a wry grin. "You can see how well _that_ turned out."

If Lucia had continued to look at Cho, she might have noticed her partner's eyes narrow. _Slytherin, huh? Somehow, I doubt there's a school in Japan that has a House of that name . . . if, indeed, Japanese schools follow the House system, period. What is your game, Henrietta Evans?_

_And why do I still trust you, despite that?_

A bell rang, and Snape made his way back to the front of the classroom and clapped his hands twice. "Well, that's class for today." An evil grin found its way to his face. "Get a good night's sleep, everyone-for tomorrow, since you did so well with the last assignment (well, most of you, at least) I've decided to give you a bit of a challenge . . ."

Everyone groaned good-naturedly, although most of the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs were also staring unabashedly at their Potions Master-that being more or less the most praise they had ever heard from him in all their years at Hogwarts.

Still grumbling, the majority of the students made their way out of the classroom, heading towards dinner or outside or to their individual common rooms, whether to study or goof off anyone's guess.

Jamie and Draco sparred on.

* * *

When they returned to the Survival classroom the next day, several significant changes had been made: The desks were now all in straight rows, with the same sort of blacktop found on the tables in the Potions classroom and in Muggle Chemistry labs; a blackboard had appeared at the front of the room, on which a title and a long list of ingredients were written in Snape's flowing script. Practically incomprehensible to the idle viewer, everyone in Survival had had his class for at least four years; if they hadn't learned how to read his writing by now, they would never have survived.

"This room seems vaguely familiar." Draco paused just inside the entrance, tapping a finger to his chin. "I wonder why . . ."

Behind him and to one side, Jamie took in the room with one glance and grinned. "Nah. It's still a lot warmer." He then gave his attention to the board, as the two of them made their way further into the room. "Veritaserum? Excellent!"

Draco gently smacked him upside the head-or tried to; Jamie ducked. "You're crazy, you know that? _And_ too quick."

Another grin, this one cheeky and meant to be so. "I try."

In silent accord, once they reached their desks, they began taking out and sorting the supplies that would be necessary for the task at hand. "I remember that Veritaserum has . . . what was it? . . . a break, to let it sit for at least forty-eight hours at one point . . . right?"

Draco wracked his mind. "That sounds about right. The instructions when I looked over them one time seemed rather vague-between two and five days, or something like that. For a potion as advanced as Veritaserum, I couldn't quite believe that there was that much give, but . . ."

"So we won't be finishing today." Jamie nodded slowly. "About what I figured. Feel up to a spar after we finish?" A slow smile, promising mayhem.

Draco tossed his head. "Of course. I have to regain my honor after losing to you yesterday, after all." He showed his teeth in his returned grin. He stretched. "Besides, I've heard the best treatment for sore muscles is more of the same. And I _am_ sore-fighting you is a lot harder than the dummy enemies from the last couple of lessons."

Jamie nodded his agreement, at the same time accepting the complement. "The dummies are beginning to get harder, though-they're probably programmed to increase in skill and power as we do."

Something seemed off about the black-haired Gryffindor. Draco peered closer. "What the-Harry, your teeth!"

Jamie blinked, and his canine teeth, larger and sharply pointed only moments before, returned to their original size. "Hm?"

"You're sponateously changing. Your teeth-they looked like they do when we practice for a moment there." Draco gnawed at a fingernail, absent-mindedly stroking his bushy white tail. He blinked, and looked down between his fingers.

Yes, he hadn't imagined it. A bushy white tail there was indeed. "I'm doing it too! That means . . . soon . . ."

Jamie's face reflected the enthusiasm in Draco's eyes. "Soon, we may manage the full transformation!"

* * *

Snape paced in front of a class that was currently paying most of their attention to their individual cauldrons. So far, everyone was about where he had expected them to be-except Draco and Potter, who were farther along than even he had expected. Mostly because they started early.

He would never have believed that Potter could turn out to be a Potions enthusiast equal to Draco. Actually, almost certainly greater than, considering that Draco's admitted 'one true love' in academia was not Potions, as most assumed, but Ancient Runes. One of the few things he was almost certain the boy had hidden from his father, considering Lucius' opinions on the subject.

'Useless, meaningless crap' was one of the gentler commentaries he had been subjected to when they were back in school. Not that he and Lucius had been close friends-hard when Lucius was five years ahead of him, a gap a bit too far to bridge at that age. Lucius' rants, however, had been to the common room as a whole- _everyone_ had been subjected to them.

No, Potter was certainly not a Potions enthusiast the equal of Draco. In fact, he reminded Snape of nothing moreso than a certain other black-haired student that had graduated nearly twenty years earlier.

Discomfiting, finding similarities between himself and _Potter's_ son, of all people. Discomfiting, and rather disturbing.

Unlike that first Potions section, this time there were no disturbances. As the last group set their cauldron aside for the cooling and gelling process-one that would take, as Draco had earlier noted, between two and five days, Snape cleared his throat.

"That is all we are doing today. We will finish the potion on Tuesday and test it." Suddenly white faces. He suppressed the (admittedly fairly small) urge to snicker. _Surely they don't think I'm_ that _evil. Do they even_ realize _how many different poisons and otherwise non-ingestible substances can be created by just varying the recipe the slightest bit?_ "I will personally inspect each potion and substitute in a small amount of commercially-made Veritaserum for any that I feel are . . . inadequate."

Immediate relief. He began to pace. "Although, as you know, it is impossible to lie under the influence of Veritaserum, many of you may not know that it _is_ possible to selectively tell the truth. _If_ you have a strong enough will _and_ the amount of the serum in your system is small enough."

Comprehension. "Indeed, that is what you shall be testing on the latter part of class Tuesday." The bell rang. "Class dismissed."

"Ready?" Draco asked, bringing his knife up into guard position as the classroom emptied. He grinned a mouth full of razor sharp teeth.

Jamie flipped his twin knives into the air, catching each in the opposite hand. "Whenever you are." Canines poked out over his bottom lip. "En garde."

Behind them, one of the last through the door, Cho paced out of the room, hands in pockets and deep in thought. _A perfect chance to find out what it is that Harry is hiding and why._

_. . . But do I really want to take it?_

* * *

Pop!

"You did it, Harry!" Draco smiled, a smile that for once had nothing of the predator about it. Jamie, in his guise as a black-green bat, flapped his wings experimentally once or twice before taking off. "You know, though, those green eyes of yours are _really weird_ looking. I'm not kidding."

The bat flew over to the full-length mirror propped up in one corner of Draco's room. There, he made a point of posing and preening for quite some time, before flying back over to his friend. He hovered in front of the blond for a few seconds before seeming to come to a decision and diving in to 'roost' on top of Draco's head.

"Oi! What happened to 'bats never get caught in people's hair'?" Draco cried, ineffectually swatting. Jamie leaned over until, upside down, his eyes met Draco's. He gave him a Look. _Well,_ I _was doing it on_ purpose _. Duh._

"Grr. Two can play at this game." With a similar pop!, Draco was replaced by a pure white fox, too small for the black bat to roost comfortably on. In a huff, Jamie flew off and started hanging on the hangings of Draco's bed.

The fox leapt from floor to a nearby chair, then from chair to bed, and from there he began pouncing at the obviously irritated bat. It was not too long before Jamie began dive-bombing Draco.

What seemed like hours passed, as they cheerfully played and fought, turning the tables on each other quite frequently. Finally, they ended up in an exhausted pile on the floor, human again. "You know . . . we really ought to have contacted Parvati."

"She's read the journal nearly as many times as you and I. She knows what's supposed to happen next. Being so Gryffindorish, I'm sure if she had reached this point already, she would have come to us straight off. And we _had_ to go ahead and get this over with-imagine what would have happened if I had grown my tail someplace where there were actually people around to _see_!" A nudge. "That's _your_ Gryffindor side speaking."

Jamie struggled to a sitting position. "There's nothing that says Gryffindors can't occasionally be right about something, too."

"Sure there is." Draco said with a straight face, as he too rose from his previous prone position. "Many generations worth of Slytherins."

A beat of silence. Then, in unison, they broke out into helpless laughter, leaning against each other when they were laughing so hard they couldn't support themselves.

"It . . . wasn't . . . really that funny . . ." Jamie finally gasped. He laboriously made his way to his feet, still sporadically snickering. "I guess I ought to go, huh? Get back before too many people start missing me. It's been fun, though."

"Of course. The party's always happenin' around Draco Malfoy." The blond adopted a slangish tone before sobering. "It really was. Come back whenever, 'k? And I really do mean whenever. If you start feeling stifled by the Gryffindorishness of the Tower in the middle of the night even, come on over. I'll leave a little corner of the floor open for you."

A sanctuary, and one not dependent on time of day-the Survival room locked itself at night, as he had discovered that weekend in which he pulled several near-all-nighters. A genuine smile made its way to his face. "Thanks. I may take you up on that someday." _Or some night._

Draco peered into his face. "Please tell me you don't snore?"

* * *

"So what's your excuse for being here early _today_ , Mr. Potter?" Despite the acerbic words, Snape's tone of voice was relatively tolerant-he had actually more or less gotten used to the Gryffindor's habit of appearing for all his classes about an hour early.

"What's my usual excuse? Boredom, of course." He leaned back in his chair deliberately, although a loud creak caused him to sit back up in a hurry. "Nothing at all was going on except Fred and Angelina discussing-of all things!-wedding plans. They're planning on getting married as soon as they leave Hogwarts, from what I've gathered."

Snape frowned darkly. "What a horridly _stupid_ thing to do."

Jamie raised an eyebrow. "It's not like it's precisely coming out of nowhere or anything. I mean, Fred asking Angelina to the Yule Ball last year might have been more of a joke than anything else, but as far as I can tell they've always been pretty good friends-and since they're both part of the Quidditch team, they're used to working together."

"Peace!" Snape held up a hand. "I was not speaking specifically of Mr. Weasley and Miss Johnson, but of the general concept of getting married straight out of school."

A very skeptical look.

Snape heaved an irritated sigh. "As fantastic as it may sound to you, I actually speak from experience."

Jamie blinked. Snape married to . . . well, anyone . . . was a truly mindbending thought. "What happened?"

"You know, the usual: a year or so of wedded bliss, my wife demanding divorce, me acquiescing because I never could deny her anything . . . her remarrying a few days later, giving her new husband a child a little more than nine months after that . . . nothing special." A sudden glare. "Why am I telling _you_ this, anyway?"

"I slipped a bit of Veritaserum in your tea." Jamie deadpanned.

Snape threw a panicked glance at his desk where-wonder of wonders-there resided no teacup. "Ha ha. Funny."

Jamie smirked. "I rather thought it was." He leaned forward onto his elbows. "But your experience aside, it's got to work some time. I mean, look at my parents-they were sweethearts in school, got married just out of it, and . . ." _died less than two years later_ ". . . well, maybe that's not the best example. But if Voldemort hadn't interfered . . ."

He stopped, fascinated by the unique sight of Snape's face going first red, then a strange color that bore the closest resemblance to purple that he had ever seen on another person's face. It was almost enough to make him want to cower, considering how big this verbal explosion seemed to be shaping up to be. The Potions Master opened his mouth . . .

And snickered. _Snickered!_ Jamie's world-view tilted on edge as he tried to process the fact that his unflappable, completely serious in every way, _never_ known to show more positive emotion that an occasional distant smile for his favoured Slytherins, _really was_ currently snickering at him.

Frankly, the only thing that could have surprised him more at this point would be if Snape were to start outright laughing. He opened his mouth, found he had nothing coherent to say, closed it, reordered his thoughts, and tried again. "What's so funny?"

"The thought of Potter and Lily . . . together . . . during school." Snort. "The mutt would have clawed her eyes out!" A return to snickering. "Now _that_ would have been an interesting cat fight to see."

Jamie surmised-correctly-that 'the mutt' referred to his godfather, Sirius. The implications took him a few more moments to process. "Er . . . my father and Sirius . . ."

Snape leaned back in his chair. "Ah, but those were the good old days. Unfortunately, I never _did_ quite manage to get any rumours about wild Marauder orgies off the ground-Pettigrew was, unfortunately, just too blatantly straight." A _very_ dark scowl. "He even had the _gall_ to try to ask Lily out once or twice."

 _Wormtail_ was the _only_ blatantly straight one . . . which meant . . .

The things you were never quite sure you really _wanted_ to know about your parents' private lives . . . "My father . . . Sirius . . . _and_ Remus?"

Snape had a misty look in his eyes. "I helped set up the betting pools on who would get married first, to whom, or whether they'd just shack up together for the rest of their lives . . . of course, no one was stupid enough to bet that Potter would marry a _girl_ , and _certainly_ not Lily. Which he actually didn't do until more than a year after we left school."

The Potions Master spread his hands. "Now do you see why I found the concept so amusing?"

Strangely, at no point in time did it occur to him that his professor might be lying to him; Snape wouldn't do that. It was such a foreign thought, Snape lying, even to him, even before this year, that it never even crossed his mind. Stretch the truth, perhaps, at times, but outright lie? No.

Jamie just continued to blankly stare. _The things you never knew about your parents . . ._  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10 January 2003


	11. Initiation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides* I'm reallyreallyreally sorry this chapter is so late. It's a little longer than usual, but not enough to justify how much longer it took me to finish . . . somehow, I managed to only get writer's block when I was sitting at the computer.
> 
> *sigh*
> 
> Well, I hope it's worth the wait. Should be an interesting twist or two, at least. ^_^
> 
> We all know by now that Andrea Pucey (and a couple of other random Slytherins) are the only people that belong to me. I trust you'll be able to tell the difference.

". . . you know how little he has 'imposed' on us, on the whole. In fact, except for when he's helping Andrea, he's hardly ever here at all. Yet, as I'm sure Draco would agree, he seems a lot happier. More at ease. Like he doesn't need to consistently re-affirm his place here so long as he knows he has one." Pansy finished her report. "Maybe I'm being unduly sentimental, but I don't think we should take that from him."

"So all six of you are in agreement. Harry Potter should stay." Vincent Avery noted. Vince was a sixth-year, oddly not a prefect, but retained his position on the Council by virtue of his keen mind and his position as Chris' second-in-command. "Are there any who disagree with this decision, or have something else to add?"

A small girl stepped forward. At just barely twelve, she was already every inch a Slytherin and on her way to becoming just as tenacious as her older brother, former Slytherin Adrian Pucey, had been. "I don't think I would be anywhere near as good at my schoolwork without Harry's help. He doesn't just give me the answers, though-he makes me work for them."

She paused. "Just like Sev'rus does. He's a genuinely good and sweet person, and he's also very Slytherin. _I_ think he belongs here."

"He doesn't call attention to himself." Second-year Malcolm Braddock added. "The times he's been here, I've hardly noticed his presence. He doesn't yearn for the spotlight the way most of those . . . Gryffindors do. I agree with Andrea-I think he belongs with us too."

"He still has some of those stupid Gryffindor prejudices cluttering up his head." Honor Wright, a third-year, added. She still looked back on the time when she first met Harry Potter with a certain amount of patronizing amusement-he had openly gawked at her until she asked sharply if he had _really_ thought that all Slytherins were White, in the purest sense of the word.

As much as and perhaps even more so than the other Houses, Slytherin judged by who a person was, not _what_ she was. Certainly, there were still very few Muggle-born Slytherins . . . but _not_ just because of Salazar Slytherin's supposed prejudices. For some reason, most of the truly ambitious Muggles were not at all magical; of those that were, most again tended to be so focused on their ambition in the Muggle world that they never even considered attending Hogwarts.

Honor's main ambition was to bring better schools of magic to South Africa, the homeland of her grandparents, who had been mostly self-taught and had moved here to England in hopes that their children would gain a more comprehensive magical education than they had had available to them. Headmistress Wright-she had always thought that that had a nice sound to it.

And then, for Potter to gawk at her merely because of the color of her skin . . . "Still, he is intelligent enough to know when-and for the most part why-he's made such a major mistake, and to correct his behaviour. Give him a few years, and we'll have him completely converted." That remark generated a brief flurry of laughter and, from the less restrained members of the group, a couple of "Right on!"s.

"He's a kindred spirit." Beth Lestrange, the other seventh-year prefect, noted quietly. The room fell completely silent immediately, as all attention focused on her, for she was one of the few who rarely ever shared her views, even within the smaller environment of the Council. In a House-wide discussion, as this was, her intervention was practically unheard of.

She shrugged uncomfortably at all the attention. "I don't care what people say about the family Harry is living with; it's obvious that he doesn't think of those Muggles as 'home'." A straight gaze that panned the room, directly connecting to each pair of eyes at least once.

"You all know me; you know that I live at an orphanage over the summer." She paused. "The orphanage is nice enough, but I think of Hogwarts, and Slytherin, as my _only_ true home. Drawing from his reaction when we first initiated him, as well as his shift in attitude over the past few weeks, it is obvious-to me, at least-that he feels the same way."

She sank back into her chair, almost, one would think, exhausted by the excessive amount of talking she had just done, more than she had contributed to at least the last ten meetings combined. She waved a hand. "I agree with Pansy: perhaps it's unduly sentimental of me, but I don't want to tear that away from him."

From his position in one of the largest chairs in the Lair, his undeclared 'throne' as the Slytherin Head Boy, Chris Flint nodded his respect to Beth and, as she had previously, panned the room with his gaze. "It seems that we are more or less in accord. There is only one question left to answer." He pinned Draco with his eyes. "You are sure that he has not told anyone?"

Out of respect, Draco stood in front of the chair instead of attempting to find or conjure up a seat. "Almost certain. He has made no mention of it to Snape, or, for that matter, anyone, in my presence . . . and frankly, if he had told at all, I think we'd know by now."

Chris considered that statement for a moment, before nodding his agreement. "Indeed." Yes, if Snape knew that they had initiated-even, at this point, first stage only-a Gryffindor, much less the 'Boy-Who-Lived', he would surely have come around questioning their mental competence in the most acidic of tones by now. And if another student knew, soon enough the whole school would-none but Slytherin would be capable of hiding such a deliciously scandalous secret. Not even Slytherin, when it was a secret that didn't directly pertain to their House.

"Still," he sighed, "unquestioning obedience to an authority figure? Not a very Slytherin quality." Draco's face gained an angry cast as he opened his mouth and then, belatedly, closed it. "You have something you would like to add?"

"With all due respect, I don't think Harry thought about it in that way." Draco's eyes remained angry at the perceived slight to his friend.

"It is true, you do know our newest recruit best," Chris mused.

"Heck, just the fact that he's capable of prompting Draco Malfoy to turn Hufflepuff on us is proof enough to me!" An unidentified voice from the center of the crowd, prompting more laughter, in tone distinctly agreeing with the speaker.

Unruffled by the interruption (though, if you looked close enough, you might catch the hint of a smile) Vincent Avery leaned forward in his chair, set right to the side and a bit behind Chris'. "So how would _you_ interpret Harry's actions-or, more precisely, lack thereof-over the past several weeks?"

"Some of it may, perhaps, have been that he felt it was not his place." Now that Draco had been called upon to explain his side of the story, he calmed considerably. "I think most of his decision to remain quiet, however, had to do with the simple fact that he's intelligent enough to know that Severus would _never_ believe him. I mean . . . would you?"

Chris barked a laugh. "When you put it that way . . . no. I wouldn't." His eyes pierced Draco. "So, what do you think the 'Boy-Who-Lived' would think if he realized that he was still being tested over these past few weeks?"

Draco considered. "Knowing Harry . . . I think he'd laugh. And say something along the lines of 'Slytherins. I should have known.' "

* * *

Someone was watching him. Jamie scanned the Great Hall, looking for the presence he had sensed. Finally, his eyes landed on a familiar face, one of his new friends of sorts-Andrea Pucey, one of the five first-year Slytherins, who he was currently helping tutor in Transfiguration and Charms. She tilted her head slightly in the direction of the door. ' _Could you come tutor me tonight?_ ', the gesture meant.

He nodded just as (hopefully) unnoticeably, both a confirmation that he had noticed her and a affirmation that he was free and willing. She smiled demurely and turned back to her dinner; the sensation of being watched vanished.

"So, what are you going to do?"

"Huh?" He looked up, belatedly realizing that the question had been directed towards him and that, in his abstractedness, he had failed to keep track of the conversation. He had _no_ idea what Lucia was talking about. _Not,_ he admitted, _that it's not nice that she's speaking to me again, whatever the reason._ "Sorry, I was a bit out of it."

Lucia rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "I was just wondering what you were planning on going to the Masquerade as. Parvati and I have been throwing around ideas since the notice went up; I just thought contacting a new source might give us some better ideas."

Jamie shrugged. He really had not given the Halloween party much thought at all, beyond figuring that he and Draco would probably arrange complementary costumes. Correction- _Draco_ would arrange the costumes for both of them, as the blond had a _very_ low (and probably justifiable) opinion of Jamie's fashion sense.

His eyes unfocused as he stared out across the hall. Who _would_ he be? A deliciously evil idea occurred to him, one that he discarded almost immediately. Still, he let the smirk curl his lips. "Perhaps I'll come as Voldemort."

* * *

As was his custom, after dinner Snape made his way down through the dungeons to the Serpent's Lair, as Slytherin "Tower" had been called since long before anyone still alive-and all the ghosts that could be persuaded to talk-could remember. Although he had the list, by which he could easily pinpoint the location of any student-except the few seventh-years who had found ways around the spell, of course-he preferred in most cases to just check in every now and then.

It allowed him to see what was going on and if anyone needed his help. Certainly Slytherins were generally the shyest about asking for help, even when they knew they needed it.

At the door, he expected about the usual when it opened-most of the standard chairs filled, but a few empty and none of the extra "emergency" chairs called up; a couple people on the floor merely because they found that environment more conducive to whatever it was they were doing at that point. Conversation, in some cases heavy, but very little _chatter_ , and nearly all of the speaking done in low voices, adding up to only a mild background noise instead of the dull roar more common in other Houses.

What he found was very different. Near complete silence and almost no one was actually doing anything. _All_ the extra chairs were out, and only a few remained unfilled. Chris Flint stepped forward. "Sir. We've been waiting for you."

If the setting hadn't been enough, _that_ would have clued Snape into the fact that Something Different was going on. By standing policy, everyone referred to each other by first name-up to and including himself. In a world that for the most part frowned heavily on Slytherin, it created of the Lair a sanctuary, one desperately needed by nearly every Slytherin at one point or another.

Chris only ever called him 'sir' when something unusual, an extremely formal, ceremonial occasion, was in the works. But what? There were so few choices, and most seemed patently absurd. "Mr. Flint." Whatever was happening, he would wing it the best he knew how until someone clued him in.

He looked around and realized with a shock that not most, but _all_ of the Slytherins were here, each sitting in his or her own chair, strictly ranked by both year and status (it was, after all, a ceremonial occasion). All-with one exception. "Where is Miss Pucey?"

"Fetching our guest of honor." The torch light glinted strangely off his dark eyes. "We are holding a Final Initiation tonight."

Shock! _That_ had been one of the (supposedly) ludicrous possibilities he had discarded. Even the first stage of initiation, the trial period, almost never came to pass-the Sorting Hat was pretty good at figuring out where to place people the first time, and initiation was only for those outside Slytherin who possessed all those qualities.

Of the few who made it through the first stage, even fewer were actually inducted, as the entirety of Slytherin House observed and judged their behaviour after having been let in on a few of the secrets; judged to determine whether or not they were _truly_ fit.

That this entire process had been carried through, for probably the first time in hundreds of years, _without his knowledge_ . . . "I see." He said weakly, mechanically moving forward to take the foremost chair, turned to face the rest of the House, as was his right and duty as Head. As if on cue, Chris turned and sank into his own place, at the head of the seventh-year line.

In the mean time, he was cycling through his mind every student of the other three houses he could remember, searching for the one that was Slytherin enough to make it this far. There were a couple in Ravenclaw that he had always thought would do moderately well in Slytherin-the youngest Flint scion, third-year Rebecca, for example.

But in both cases, their love of learning greatly overshadowed their more Slytherin qualities; they were both _quite_ happy where they were. And initiation was a voluntary process on both sides of the equation-the applicant had to wish for that change. Frankly, he could think of no one who qualified.

The door opened, and in the sudden silence he could hear footsteps approaching. No voices, though; no clue as to who this mysterious applicant might be. Then they rounded the corner, Andrea first, looking solemnly dignified, then the applicant, still pulling a Slytherin robe- _they must keep one hidden near the entrance for him to use_ -over a green sweater and extremely baggy Muggle jeans.

The black hair, shining greasily in the torchlight, emerged first, as Snape got this uncomfortable feeling at the pit of his stomach. He had had no clue that this was going to happen . . . but somehow, now that it had, he was not at all surprised. Then the heartbreakingly familiar emerald eyes, no longer hidden by those ugly old glasses, set into the not-so-familiar vaguely heart-shaped face, longer and thinner and paler than it had been in years past.

No, somehow he was not at all surprised.

Potter looked around, eyes taking in everything calmly. Then, he spoke. "Somehow, I don't think we'll be studying tonight, Andrea." Rich with enough hinted sarcasm to prompt spurts of muffled laughter here and there.

"I have brought him." Andrea told Chris and, in a surprisingly elegant fashion, bowed.

"Thank you." The girl moved back and took her seat-she was, not surprisingly, the highest in status in first year. "Applicant, step forth."

All traces of kidding gone, with a certain amount of hesitation in his step ( _'is he talking about_ me _?'_ ), Potter walked forward, until he stood between Snape and Flint.

Snape cleared his throat. "Through sacred tradition, you come before us because you have been deemed worthy of wearing the Serpent's Crest. Do you wish to join Salazar Slytherin's House? If you refuse, no harm shall come to you; your memory of this event will be wiped and you will be sent away free."

Beginning softly, Potter's words slowly gained in volume, but the absolute conviction behind them remained the same. "With all my heart, I wish to join the House of Salazar Slytherin."

* * *

"Lee'll be gone next year." It was an extremely random ejaculation, having absolutely nothing to do with the previous conversation.

Then again, this was Ron talking. Hermione, as one of his best friends for more than four years now, was rather used to it. "And?" She tried to elegantly raise one eyebrow, but had the sinking feeling that she had failed miserably.

Ron's brief bout of snickering might have had something to do with that impression . . .

He quickly regained his composure in order to answer her query. "With Lee gone, who will be Quidditch commentator? It's got to be a Gryffindor-it's tradition!"

"Probably because no one else is loudmouthed enough to want the job." Hermione grinned. "It's not like Lee's a very _good_ commentator, though."

"What do you mean?! He's great!"

Hermione snorted. "He might be if he could keep his attention on the game, instead of insulting Slytherin or extolling the virtues of Harry's Firebolt . . . I mean, I have House pride and all, and I admit it's nice hearing _Slytherin_ get verbally mauled for a change, but enough is enough!" She crossed her arms. "Face it. Even _I_ could be a better commentator than Lee."

Ron laughed out loud. " _You?_ 'Mione, you don't know _anything_ about Quidditch. You'd be awful!"

_Now_ her pride had been insulted. "Well, if I don't know anything about Quidditch, I suppose I should learn before the tryouts next year, hm?" She snapped her book shut and stood, scoping out the common room.

_Katie. Perfect._ Projecting more assurance than she felt, she headed across the room in the direction of the Chaser in question. _I'll show you, Ronald Weasley._

_Just watch. I'll be the best damn commentator this school has_ ever _had._

* * *

Jamie was now beginning to understand why so few people (he presumed) had successfully transferred into Slytherin. By the end of the endless rounds of questions on practically every subject under the sun, he was beginning to feel as if he had been pulled through a wringer.

No. Strike the 'beginning'.

In fact, it took him nearly a minute to realize that the questioning period was over with . . . the silence stretched until finally he looked over at Snape. The man looked _amused_. Jamie considered being offended, before deciding that he was just way too exhausted.

Snape nodded slowly. "You have been judged Slytherin by your words."

Chris continued. "You have been judged Slytherin by your actions."

"In heart and in mind, we judge you Slytherin. Will any object?" Snape looked around, meeting the eyes of every person in the silent crowd. "Very well."

Although he tried valiantly, Jamie could feel himself sagging visibly. _Are we done yet?_

"It only remains for you to become the blood of Slytherin." In a softer voice, something of an aside, Snape explained, "Most who come here are from primarily Slytherin families. Those who are not, are bound to the house with a stock of Slytherin blood we keep on hand."

"For those being initiated, as you are, however, there is a third choice-you may choose one Slytherin to be bound to, presuming that he or she also agrees."

Jamie tried to consider. One possibility presented itself to him, but . . . "With all due respect, Professor, right now I don't think I could decide my way out of a wet paper bag." He knew what he _wanted_ to do, what he instinctively felt was the right thing to do, but he also knew that, as tired as he was, he was in no condition to be properly considering the advantages and drawbacks of such an action.

Amazingly, this admission drew no censure, but instead startled a slow smile out of Professor Snape. "You know your limits and are not afraid to admit them. You have come a long way from the Gryffindor childling I first knew."

That Gryffindor had been more than half of his own invention; Jamie had always felt that Snape's concept of him was very different from he himself. Still, it was hardly polite to say so, so he kept his mouth shut and his face (hopefully) blank.

"You have until tomorrow evening to decide."

* * *

Despite his exhaustion, Jamie found that he could not sleep. He kept turning the idea over in his head, trying to find faults even though he knew he was tired enough that even the most glaring of them could quite easily pass him by.

And then there were his roommates. They had seen him come in later than usual; Ron at least must have realized that he had more or less disappeared right after supper.

Having lived among them, Jamie did not, unlike many Slytherins, fall into the trap of believing that being Gryffindor necessitated being unobservant. And considering how long he had been disappearing for one reason or another, even the most unobservant of Gryffindors would surely soon figure out that something was going on.

Yet another thing to worry about. He turned over to look out the window, then got up and walked over to get a better view. The moon was out of view; nearly half-full if he remembered correctly. It was hard to see any but the brightest of the stars. Still, he stood there, indulging in the chance to think of nothing at all in particular.

He was seized with a sudden restlessness; somehow just standing at the window was no longer enough. Besides . . . the room, as it and the rest of Gryffindor Tower often did, was beginning to make him feel stifled, uncomfortable. He'd be happier outside, in the cool night air.

He padded over to his trunk, opening and digging through to the place where he ordinarily hid his Invisibility Cloak-after such a history of after-hours wandering, _that_ particular spot was more or less hardwired into his brain. It was there, but . . . different.

Now frowning, he drew it out. Instead of being folded up neatly, it was wrapped in ordinary brown paper (as far as he could tell from what little light he had and, more telling, the feel). He drew his wand and whispered " _Lumos_." As if in response to his tone, the light that appeared was dim. He stored that in the back of his mind for later-could, perhaps, other spells be modified in a similar fashion?

Indeed, the Cloak (or, at least, that was what he assumed it was) was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a bit of string, a note attached to the top.

_Mr. Potter-_ the note read.

_I have returned to you your father's cloak. Perhaps you should refrain, from now on, from leaving it lying where anyone might be able to stumble across it._

Unsigned, of course. But, no longer a first year, Jamie had enough experience to recognize the Headmaster's writing-the man had certainly taken no effort at all to hide it. He closed his eyes, resisting the urge to bang his head against the wall, when he realized that he had left the Cloak lying in the room where the Mirror of Erised had resided on the first night of school . . . and not even noticed until now.

Neatly unwrapping it, he threw the cloak over his shoulders and crushed the paper into a ball, to be disposed of in the nearest trash can. Meanwhile, he shook his head sadly. _And I was calling Gryffindors the oblivious ones . . ._

* * *

He finally stopped walking out near the center of the Quidditch pitch; stopped walking, lay down, and gazed up at the stars. The restlessness disappeared and his mental exhaustion seeped away as he relaxed in mind and body. He yawned.

Soon enough, though, not content with relaxation, his mind began reluctantly to work again. He summoned up everything he could recall about blood bonds. The worst hurdle, in his mind, was the fact that if one died, the other would share his fate.

Considering that, the way things were going, he and Draco seemed almost guaranteed to end up on the wrong side of the war, bonding with the blond Slytherin would be a Bad Idea the likes of which the world had never seen before.

So why did it seem so right?

He sighed. Yes, he was definitely still too tired to be thinking about this, if he couldn't come up with anything better, or even manage to convince himself of the utter foolishness of this plan. It wasn't as if he even knew if Draco would be amenable . . .

Why did he _care_ what Draco thought of the idea? _He_ knew it was a stupid one. And he wasn't going to do it. Period. End of story. That's that. And his stupid intuitive-feeling of rightness could just take a long walk off a short pier for all he cared.

He needed to get his mind off this. Casting his eyes around for ideas, the Quidditch field mimicked his mind quite adroitly-blank. Then, they fell on the shadow cast by the feeble light of the moon. A human shadow; his own. For some reason, this triggered thoughts of that conversation he had held with his two totems. He had gained control of the bat transformation . . . but what of the dragon?

With much the same sort of concentration he had applied in the early days of their (his, Parvati, and Draco's) attempts at transformation, he carefully envisioned the dragon, branded as it had been into his memory.

This was no slow, exhausting change-probably just as well, considering his current reserves-much like his first full transformation, there was just the concentration, and then

_Pop!_

He stretched his wings, so much larger than the ones he possessed as a bat. A bit more stiff as well, but the rest of him made up for that small problem. With feelings of exultation that completely swept away his previous enervation, he launched himself into the air, taking flight as naturally as if he had been born with such wings on his back.

It was only after two or three loops that he realized he was no longer alone. "Hello." He greeted mildly, in a bell-like voice with strangely sibilant undertones.

The silvery dragon snaked its head in his direction, its body language conveying startlement. Could it be that the other dragon had not seen? _Of course-my black skin blends in with the darkness a_ lot _better. Especially at this time of night, with so few lights on._

"Hello . . . where are you?" The voice sounded . . . familiar, though the bell-like/sibilant qualities were quite different than any other voice he had ever heard before.

He landed on the Quidditch pitch and informed the other dragon of his location, still secondarily working on where it was he had heard that voice before.

Perhaps it was the way the dim moonlight glinted familiarly off pale scales that finally tipped him off. " _Draco?!_ "

Again, the double-take, this time conveying a hearty amount of wariness as well. "Who . . . _Harry?!_ "

Silence, as the two dragons stared.

* * *

"You really did well tonight. Even Snape was impressed."

Jamie smiled a properly draconic smile, full of sharp teeth. "Thanks." Then he sighed, reminded even more forcefully of the decision that lay before him . . . the decision he had _already decided_ , some part of his mind snapped.

"Have you made your decision about the final step?" Draco asked. ". . . if, that is, you don't mind telling me . . ." Uncertainly.

Silence. ". . . I'll probably bond some of the stock blood." Defeatedly. "It's the only intelligent thing to do, after all. Besides, it's not like I don't already have Slytherin's blood flowing through my veins."

"So why didn't you say so?"

"Unnecessary information-the fewer people know, the better for my peace of mind. Enough swarm me already just as the 'Boy-Who-Lived'."

"I can accept that." The silvery head nodded. ". . . But why not the bond? The chances a person gets in his life to have one . . . sure, you can choose to be bonded to your wife when you get married, but that's different. Circumstances have to be _just_ right for a proper friendship bond to form." Draco sounded almost envious.

Jamie rested his head on his paws. "True. And as far as I'm concerned, circumstances aren't. Right, that is. Consider: there is only one person I can think of who I'd be willing to bond with. Yet . . ." A sigh. "Knowing how great the chances would be that he and I would end up on opposite sides of the battle . . ."

A quickly indrawn breath. "Maybe . . . maybe that chance is not quite as great as you suspect. Perhaps he is just very used to obeying the dictates of someone who is, and he's finding the habit hard to break."

Even in the nearly nonexistent light, their eyes caught and held. "In that case . . ."

". . . Perhaps I would consider it after all."

* * *

"I don't think I would have liked her."

Snape looked up from his desk. "Liked whom?"

"Your wife. She sounds like a very stupid woman."

The Potions Master's ordinary, slightly discomforting stare quickly gained an acidity unparalleled by any glare Jamie had ever before had directed towards him. "Li-my wife was the brightest, gentlest, most beautiful, most wonderful woman in the world. And don't you _dare_ ever think otherwise."

_No, he's not at_ all _biased . . ._ "If she's so wonderful, then why on earth did she give you up? I mean, sure, you're not a modern-day Adonis, but if all she had cared about was looks, I doubt you would have been married in the first place. So if she was smart enough to recognize a good deal when she saw it, _why_ did she leave?"

"Mr. Potter, you seem to be under the mistaken impression that I'm a prize _worth_ being won. I'm not sure exactly what it is that has caused you to have this delusion, but . . ."

"You're intelligent, crafty, loyal . . . so honest it sometimes scares me, even if you're also one of the best people I know at twisting the truth to mean what _you_ want people to think you're saying . . ." He grinned. "What's there _not_ to like?"

Snape looked pointedly down and to his left. His left forearm, to be exact. "My wife was Muggle-born."

_I think you should shut up now, Jamie. Before you dig yourself into an even deeper hole_.

* * *

"What did you do to Severus?" Draco whispered to him as the rest of the students began filing in.

"Insulted his wife and complimented him-bringing up bad associations in the bargain." Jamie whispered back.

Draco blinked. "He's _married_?"

Though the blond had enough sense not to get any louder than their current whisper, even in his surprise, Jamie still made a shushing motion. "Not anymore. It was a long time ago." He bit his lip. "I probably shouldn't have mentioned it."

Draco tilted his head to the side briefly, a sort of half nod. At once, it conveyed the sense that no, he probably shouldn't have . . . but in this case he was safe; Draco wouldn't tell anyone.

Jamie searched for another topic. Hm . . . ah! "Siberian Ice. You?"

Draco's eyebrows raised. "The same. Strange . . . though it certainly fits you better than silver, I somehow can't see a black Siberian Ice. You'd think that any blacks would have been eliminated from the line for purely survival purposes."

"So I'm a throwback and special." Jamie shrugged. "What else is new?"

"You act as if nothing normal has ever happened to you."

"Has it?" Jamie considered, gazing off into the distance. "Of course, my life is so crazy that I really have no standards to judge how normal parts of it are."

Draco shook his head. "To think I once envied you . . . I think I'll keep my nice, relatively normal little life, thank you!"

Jamie grinned evilly. "Keep a normal life after getting involved with me? You're dreaming, my friend."

Their mouths snapped shut in unison as Snape came over to test their Veritaserum-now the pure clear color it was meant to be. Involuntarily, they leaned forward in anticipation as the Potions Master first stirred it a bit, then brought a spoonful up to eye-level to examine more closely.

"Well, what did you expect me to say?" He seemed torn between annoyance and pride. "It's perfect, of course." They sighed in relief. "You may go ahead and begin the second part of today's lesson."

They looked from each other to the cauldron and back.

A long pause.

"Duel?"

"All right."

* * *

"They're at it again." Cho observed.

Lucia rolled her eyes. "What is it with boys and sharp objects?"

Cho grinned. "Who's the one with the broadsword?"

Sniff. "Details, details. Besides, your glaive is sharp, too."

The other girl's smile widened. "I think I agree with you. Details, details. Anyway, do you want to go first, or should I?"

"Why don't you?"

"All right." Cho closed her eyes and scrunched up her face briefly in concentration. "Okay. Ready."

Two drops-a light dose, which is all they were starting with-were administered. "What's your name?"

"Cho." The concentration was still there.

"How old are you?"

"Older than you."

Lucia blinked. That was _not_ the right answer. She was supposed to give a number!

Oh. Because of the lighter dosage, Cho probably had enough presence of mind-especially considering how hard she was concentrating-to give an answer that, while still truthful (Cho being a sixth year and her only in fifth, she could hardly _not_ be older than Lucia), gave no real information.

"I did it." Cho whispered. "I wasn't quite sure I could."

"Good job!" Lucia patted her on the back. "Now, lets up the stakes." She dropped in one more drop-three drops was the maximum recommended dosage, and all they were dealing with today.

"What is your name?"

"Cho Li Chang."

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen years, nine months, fifteen days-"

"That's good enough." Lucia said hastily. "Stop."

Now, what else could she ask? Ah. "Why did you think I was talking about Malfoy last Wednesday when he and Jamie were fighting?"

Cho's eyes flew wide open and she blushed. Not deeply, but noticeably. "I was watching him, not Harry." She muttered. "He has a much more beautiful style of movement; flowing subtly instead of flashing the way Harry tends to do." Her eyes pled with Lucia to stop her.

"That's enough." Lucia bit her lip. She hadn't meant to raise such a sensitive issue. "I'm sorry . . . I . . ."

"I didn't think you meant to embarrass me. You're not like that." Cho's face was clear-she was telling the whole truth, not even trying to hold anything back.

"Yeah . . ." Still feeling vaguely ashamed (and, deep inside, just a bit disgusted-how could _anyone_ like _Malfoy_ like that? Now, Cho might have made a good pairing with her brother, if he wasn't already three-quarters of the way in love with Hermione . . . and dead . . . but _Malfoy_? No.), she moved away. "I'll . . . go get the antidote now."

* * *

"What is your name?"

"Draco."

_Hm_ . . .

"What is your numerical age?"

Draco looked frustrated. "Fifteen."

Jamie nodded to himself. So the specific question worked; Veritaserum did not necessarily constrain you to speak the full truth, if you worked hard enough, but when asked a question with that specific an answer, you couldn't circumlocute.

"Did you mean what you said last night?"

"I said many things yesterday evening, some of which I meant and some of which I didn't." Frustration smoothed away; Draco looked smug now instead.

Jamie sighed. How could he phrase this? "The last time that you and I met last night, we conversed. Did you mean what you said then?"

The blond seemed to give up; perhaps he could see how much his answer meant to Jamie. "Yes. I meant every word. You . . ." Abruptly, with the greatest of effort, he shut his mouth.

"I what?" Jamie asked, puzzled. What had Draco been about to say?

"You mean too much to me for me to ever willingly lie to you."

* * *

Only as she felt the drops of serum slide down her throat did it occur to Lucia that this was not a bright idea. In fact, it was so far beyond being a good idea, she didn't know if the words for so bad an idea existed. She had too much she had to hide.

"I'll try not to make you reveal any more of your secrets than you have to." Cho said. "I know you have a lot of them . . . but I've decided I can wait until you're ready to tell me. There's only one thing I have to know."

She turned harsher, suddenly. "Do you mean any harm to this school or any of its inhabitants?"

That, at least, was a question that Lucia could answer both simply and truthfully. "No. Hogwarts is like a second home to me." Indeed, recently it had proved a great deal more hospitable than Malfoy Manor tended to be. Especially when Father was home.

Cho relaxed. "There's a lot more that I'd like to know about you, but that's all I really _needed_ to know." She popped her neck. "Now, on to the boring questions. What is your name?"

She wasn't prepared. She could feel the serum in her veins, forcing her towards the truth . . . and how funny it was, that this one question, perhaps the simplest of all, could create such fear within her.

She tried her hardest to fight it; had she been prepared she might have been able to circumvent the question slightly, the way Cho had, but with her innate honesty joining forces with the Veritaserum and her unpreparedness, there was no hope.

"Henrietta Lucia Malfoy, Harry Potter."

* * *

With Draco about to ask his first question, Jamie raised his finger slightly, requesting a bit more time.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to convince myself that a name is just a word that you are called and that you will answer to."

"I think there's more to a name than that, but that's one basic definition, I suppose." Draco answered, now even more curious.

Jamie relaxed. "Okay. I'm ready. Shoot."

"What is your name?"

The skin around his eyes tightened a bit, perhaps. Still, there were no outward signs of any major struggle. After no more than a moment's silence, Jamie answered, voice slightly flat. "Boy."

Draco blinked. "Who calls you that?"

"My aunt and my uncle." Now there were more signs of struggle, almost as if admitting that much disturbed him far more than being called 'Boy'.

"Why?"

More struggle. "They don't like me very much." His knuckles were white and he nearly stuttered. "Can . . . we please . . . move on . . .?"

Draco was shaken; he hadn't known it was possible to ask questions like that when under the influence of Veritaserum. "Right." He cleared his throat. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen and three months as of Halloween." He didn't even bother to try and fight that one.

What else? Something that had puzzled Draco since its mention. "Who is Padfoot?"

Sudden rigidity. "My godfather."

"You have a godfather?" A chopping motion. "Ignore that; it was a rhetorical question. Who is your godfather?"

An expression that looked like it would have been a smirk if Jamie hadn't been so ill-at-ease. "Padfoot." Then, relief. "Professor . . . Snape."

Draco turned and found the aforementioned man standing right behind him. By the time he turned back, Jamie's face had gained something of a whimsical smile. "Isn't there . . . something . . . you wanted to . . . ask me?"

Evidently, this was a private joke between the two-Snape came closer to smiling than he almost ever did in a public situation. "All right, Mr. Potter. I'll bite. When did you steal from my stock and what?"

The whimsical smile broadened into an outright grin. "I have never stolen anything from your private stores, Professor."

"Then . . ."

"Please . . . don't ask . . ." Jamie interrupted. "I did have something to do with both situations, and I don't want to bring your wrath down on the ones who actually did the deed."

"Who?" Unyielding.

Jamie's eyes were screwed shut, his mouth a firm line. "Friends . . . of mine." Came out through gritted teeth.

"Potter . . ."

"Don't . . . punish . . . them? Please?" He was visibly weakening.

Snape rolled his eyes. "I doubt there's much I could do now anyway. Now, tell me the name of the friend that stole from my stores."

"Names, sir." Jamie finally gave up. "Hermione stole the boomslang skin in second year-I admit, I was the one who threw the firework into Draco's cauldron to distract you."

"I had _wondered_ . . ." Draco chimed in with Snape.

"And Dobby stole the gillyweed. He overheard Crouch staging a conversation about its possible use and knew that I had no idea how to accomplish the task. So he stole it because he wanted to help me."

" _Dobby_? My old house elf?" Draco ejaculated. "I knew we had lost him-Father was mad about it for _weeks_ -but I didn't realize it was to _Hogwarts_."

"After I tricked your father into freeing Dobby, he decided to stay here at Hogwarts-Professor Dumbledore agreed to pay him."

" _You_ tricked Lucius Malfoy?" Snape shook his head. "Draco . . . any doubts I had are gone. I've never met anyone more fit to be a Slytherin who wasn't one already."

"Extremely good job in circumventing the Veritaserum as long as you did." He nodded. "You probably ought to go on to the three-drop dosage now."

Draco and Jamie shared a secretive smile. "That would be rather hard, Professor." Draco answered, knowing that Jamie, with the Veritaserum still flowing through his veins, had a hard time speaking when it didn't apply directly to a question asked.

Frankly, he was amazed that Jamie could speak at all. In retrospect, he realized he probably could have, had it occurred to him to try. But it would have taken him even more effort than it had taken Jamie, he thought. He might not have managed it.

"Considering . . ." Jamie croaked, ". . . that we . . . started . . . at three drops."

* * *

Draco Malfoy sat in his chair and thought about life. His, to be specific.

When exactly had he changed, decided that he didn't want to serve Voldemort after all? He knew that Harry Potter was at the center of it all somehow-when was he not? Perhaps it had begun that first night back at Hogwarts; for some reason Harry's comments about his dependence on his father than night had struck him more deeply than ever before.

And further, when he got to know the other boy better, there was Harry's dauntless independence-something that, in hindsight, Draco realized had been an integral part of his personality for as long as they had known each other.

Oh, for the longest time he had passed it off as the combined arrogance of being both Gryffindor and the Boy-Who-Lived. Except he _hadn't_ been arrogant; had in fact been quite unsure of himself at times. But even then, extremely rare were the times that Harry had ever gone to an adult for help the way Draco would have.

Of course, if the Gryffindor in question was able, under a _three-drop_ dose of Veritaserum, to convince himself that his name was "Boy", then most likely he had become that independent out of necessity. Not that that made Draco respect him any less.

So, with such an example and a willingness to follow that example, while Draco still sent regular letters home, he also began to leave certain things out. After seeing Harry's independence for what it was, he realized that that was what he really wanted. He no longer wished to bow down to anyone. Not Dumbledore-even though at least the old man's reign rested relatively lightly on his subjects-not his father, and certainly not Voldemort. Besides, blood and fire and rampant destruction weren't really his thing, anyway.

The others began filing in, and Draco could feel his stomach clench in a whirlwind mixture of excitement, anticipation, and fear. He had always wished to share in that bond with someone that, to all accounts, was as close as or even closer than marriage, but despaired of ever finding a friend that close.

But . . . what if Harry didn't feel the same way? He had said nothing more on the subject after Draco's highly embarrassing admission under the influence of Veritaserum, and although he hadn't _seemed_ disgusted or anything like that, he also hadn't said anything . . .

Gah. That boy was going to drive him crazy. He really had no clue _why_ he wanted to bond him . . . except for the fact that _it felt right._ Not that they weren't close already-Draco had never had a closer friend, and sometime his depth of feeling for the pseudo-Gryffindor scared him-but there were some times when it just didn't feel close enough.

"Have you made your decision?" Snape's voice snapped Draco back into the real world, and as he looked at Harry his heart practically stopped. _What if . . ._

"I have." The raven-haired boy replied calmly. "I wish to take the third option and bond Draco Malfoy."

Snape stiffened, and Draco wondered why, even as his heart took flight from sheer elation. If Snape was a loyal Death Eater, he ought to jump at the perfect chance to exert a great deal of influence over the Boy-Who-Lived through his bond to a potential Death Eater-he couldn't know about Draco's change of heart, after all.

But . . . and here he considered the idea seriously for the first time . . . what if the rumours going around were true, and Snape really was a traitor to the Death Eater cause? If that was the case, he would most likely not want Harry within twenty miles of Draco-again, because he didn't know that Draco was no longer loyal to his father or Voldemort. The blond Slytherin held no doubt in his mind that, godfather or not, Snape's love for him would not keep him from doing what was right, nor would he blindly believe good of his godson.

If he refused, there were quite a few Slytherins who would pass that information on to their parents, and there would no longer be any doubt in the minds of several Death Eaters-and thus, Voldemort himself-that Snape _was_ a traitor and a spy.

Yet, if he was a spy, and said yes, for all he knew he could be signing the death warrant of the one person (some people said, and many believed) who could defeat Voldemort for good. It was a no-win situation for the Slytherin Head of House.

Snape glanced out over the assembly, aware, Draco was sure, that he had paused almost too long. People were beginning to draw conclusions . . . conclusions that, if he was planning on returning to his position as spy (if, that is, he was a spy in the first place, a circumstance that seemed more and more likely, even purely from a logical point of view), could very well be fatal.

Their eyes met.

* * *

_You know_ , Snape acknowledged ruefully, _I really ought to have seen this coming._ One glance at Potter was enough to show that the boy was determined; it would be Draco or no one-they had become too close.

That could only be a good thing, if Draco had only come to his senses. Unfortunately, Draco's allegiance was something that only a mind-reader could figure out. Snape had tried, all these years, to help liberate Draco from his father's influence . . . but subtly. Too subtly, he was afraid . . . but had he been any more open about it, Lucius would surely have caught on. Yet . . . something in his godson's eyes just now . . .

All he could do now was hope that Potter had accomplished what he had been unable to; or hope that the bond would pull Draco towards the Light instead of dragging Potter down into the Dark. "Very well. Draco Malfoy, come forward."

They stood there, perhaps two steps away from each other, turned with their entire attention on him. Two children, making a decision most adults shied away from.

"Harry James Potter, do you wish to join with Draco Anton Malfoy, to be bonded to each other with the strongest possible bonds of friendship, unbreakable even by death?"

"With all my heart, I do."

"Draco Anton Malfoy, do you wish to join with Harry James Potter, to be bonded to each other with the strongest possible bonds of friendship, unbreakable even by death?"

"There is nothing in the world I want more."

They were watching each other now, gazes so intense they could almost be seen. Chris stepped forward, holding a dagger that he handed over to Snape. A silver blade studded with emeralds, it had been used for such ceremonial occasions in Slytherin for hundreds of years.

In turn, Snape handed the dagger to the one who had requested the bond-Potter. _If he's Slytherin now, that mean's I'll have to start referring to him as Harry . . ._ "To show your devotion and solidify the bond, you must each cut yourselves, and commingle your blood."

Potter accepted the knife and the instruction without comment; indeed, they both seemed to have gone into a state of mute acceptance, almost as if they had done this before . . .

A whimsical smile appeared on Potter's face. In a flash of torch light, the knife came down.

Right across the underside of his wrist.

* * *

Jamie handed the knife to Draco, squinting through the pain. He knew the more accepted way of doing things was a simple, barely skin-deep cut across the palm . . . but what sort of dinky bond would _that_ form? No, although he had no real logic to his certainty, he knew that only the deepest of bonds-the exchange of lifeblood-would suffice for Draco and himself.

If, that is, Draco managed to pull himself together before Jamie died of blood loss. Currently, the blond was staring at Jamie's wrist in some sort of horrified shock. Finally, and so slowly it seemed, he shook himself and, with a steady hand that seemed paler than usual, slit his own wrist.

They clasped hands, wrist touching bloody wrist, and the moment the blood from the two cuts merged, Jamie felt the flow of power almost unbearably strong. From Draco's wide eyes, he knew that the other boy could feel the same. But where? Where was this power surge coming from?

And as the shock threw the two apart and Jamie looked down at his _completely healed_ wrist, he remembered/knew.

_Oh. I guess I was wrong . . . I'm not Slytherin's heir after all . . ._

He looked at Draco and saw a man with hair more yellow and eyes more green, a man who had been known then as Lucifer de la Rossi, and saw in that man/boy's eyes the same knowledge that had flowed back along with that surge of power when their bond had been reaffirmed for the first time in thousands of years.

_I'm Salazar Slytherin him-bloody-self._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20 February 2003


	12. Adjustments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the new chapter. I guess I was just in the mood to break records, or something . . . I got the next chapter of Coexistence out in a record short time and this chapter out in a record long time. To commemorate the fact that I've actually finished this chapter at last, I'm going ahead and posting it as is. Review answers should be uploaded within a couple of days at most.
> 
> Hopefully, I won't take this long again.
> 
> Harry Potter belongs to me. J.K. Rowling is just a figment of your collective imaginations.
> 
> . . .
> 
> . . .
> 
> April Fools.

To the majority of the school, Wednesday passed with not even a whisper that anyone else in the school had any idea what a momentous event had happened the previous night. It was, perhaps, notable that far less Slytherin-instigated mayhem (generally second only to that of the Weasley twin variety) occurred than usual-on the whole, they were too busy processing the odd bonding that had taken place and, in the case of a select few, figuring out exactly what to write home, and how, about recent events.

Snape could be seen with an abstracted look in his eyes as he reviewed incessantly that one frightening moment when the black-haired (former) Gryffindor slit his wrist. _But then, should I really be surprised?_ He eventually concluded with a sense of grudging respect-an emotion that, when applied to the aforementioned student, had only seemed to increase lately. _This is Potter . . . he never does anything by halves._

The whole business had scared nearly ten years off his life, raising yet another interesting question. When had he begun to take such a personal interest in Potter's well-being? Somehow it had become more than just a way to repay his debt to the elder Potter and an excuse to watch over the child that should have been his.

The students lucky enough to have his class Wednesday learned that an abstracted Snape was a good thing-any swooping and glaring he did was a half-hearted effort at best, and he didn't take points hardly at all. Unless, that is, a student was foolish enough to try and pull him out of his thoughts-that was worth an automatic five points on the first flimsy pretext that came up; even the one Slytherin, too young to recognize the signs, that tried cost his House two points.

And if Jamie and Draco occasionally looked at each other strangely, almost as if they expected to see someone else instead, it was deemed slightly odd, but certainly far better than the usual knock-down, drag-out fights they engaged in. Platitudes about "the calm before the storm" ran rampant; the consensus was that it would not last, so peace-loving people-students and teachers alike-should do their best to enjoy the calm while they could.

* * *

"Chris?"

The stocky boy shook his head. "I honestly don't know, V. It would help if I knew exactly _what_ happened . . ."

The skinny sixth-year slumped back in his chair, stretched, and sighed. "I was afraid that was what you were going to say. At least _your_ father isn't in the Inner Circle . . . he won't be expected to report everything in excruciating detail . . . more detail than I could offer even if I wanted to . . ."

"Ssh." Chris put a finger to the other's lip, his voice quiet. "It should be safe, but you should be careful what you say. 'The walls have ears' . . . especially here."

"Especially here." Vince's lips curled into half a rueful smile. "Sometimes, I almost wish I had been born a Hufflepuff . . . I get the feeling life would be a lot safer that way."

Chris' own smile shone through, a hair's breadth from taking on the sharp-toothed menace of a shark's. "But where would be the fun in that?"

"What made them do that, do you think?" Vince asked, after a short silence. "I mean . . . life's blood . . ."

"It does seem a bit excessive." Chris nodded, absently rubbing a small scar cutting across most of his right palm. Even with such a drastic subject change with so little warning, he followed his best friend's train of thought with the ease of long practice. "It's also one of the things that makes me think there was something decidedly . . . off. You'd think they would have bled far more than showed up on the carpet."

Vince raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you notice? Draco didn't have a bandage around his wrist this morning-and I'll lay odds that Harry didn't either. I don't think they _did_ bleed after those first few moments before they sealed the bond."

"Instantaneous healing?" The Slytherin Head Boy's eyes were round. "I didn't know that was possible."

"Neither did I." Vince shook his head, looking down at his clenched right hand and remembering the weeks it took before the cut had fully healed. Good thing _they_ had had their ceremony in private one Christmas Break, where there were fewer around to notice or care. "Neither did I."

* * *

"Spill it, Sal. You're hiding something, and I'll bet my next month's allowance it has something to do with my dagger."

Jamie shut the door behind himself, advancing into the room. "What in the world gave you _that_ idea?" Filled with as much innocent surprise as he could muster.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Perhaps because _you_ already have your bracers back. Or maybe just the fact that your eyes are twinkling almost as much as Dumbledore's-a sure sign that you're hiding something." He smirked. "We may look different, but some habits never change. And I know _all_ your habits."

Jamie rolled his eyes skyward. "Dear Merlin, please enlighten me as to just what prompted me to soulbond a Slytherin? They're far too observant. I think I was drunk . . ."

"You were not! We were both stone cold sober, and don't you ever believe otherwise, Salazar Rafael Slytherin." A pause. "Besides, we had just finished fending off a good-sized invading army. We hadn't had _time_ to get drunk yet."

Jamie grinned. "I'm still amazed that one of us didn't murder the other after the first hundred years or so." He closed his eyes. "We really rushed into this, didn't we? People normally don't get to know each other well enough in, what, a month? five weeks? to make this sort of decision. We were really lucky it didn't turn out otherwise."

"We're not lucky. We're something even better-I'm Lucifer and you're Salazar. We've already spent twenty years getting to know each other and nearly a hundred and fifty-"

"One hundred forty-seven"

"-bonded. Thank you. I knew that. May I continue?"

"Be my guest."

"The point is, we know each other about as well as it is possible for two people to."

Jamie's mouth twisted. "Yes and no. It is true that I am Salazar and you are Lucifer, but it is also true that I am Harry and you are Draco. Tell me, what is my favorite color?"

"Emerald green, of course-to match your eyes. And silver secondly-why else would they be the Slytherin house colors?"

"Green and silver are pretty, yes, but I actually prefer black. Burgundy's pretty high up there too, and teal. Um. What's my opinion on the Muggle question?"

Draco opened his mouth, shut it again. "Okay, you've made your point. As Salazar, you were utterly opposed to any Muggle students attending Hogwarts . . . and I was the . . . voice of moderation?!" He blinked, surprised at the words coming out of his mouth. "Well, _there's_ a role reversal . . ."

"There's the whole nature vs. nurture argument come into play." Jamie looked smug. "This time around, you were fed hatred of Muggles practically along with your mother's milk. I grew up among them, and even if I was part of the family of some of the worst, I also had plenty of chance to meet some of the better specimens of the race-one of them's one of my best friends, after all."

Draco looked torn. "Man. Now I can't make anymore 'mudblood' cracks without feeling guilty about it. Stupid Lucifer and his tolerance."

"Look at it as a blessing-at least now you don't have to unlearn that habit more . . . drastically . . ." Jamie made a great show of cracking his knuckles, all the while smiling beatifically.

"And what about you?" Draco shot. "Are Salazar's opinions just so completely suppressed by Harry's indoctrination that they don't even come up?"

"No, I understand and even to some extent agree with my former opinion on the subject of Muggles in Hogwarts." The green-eyed boy leaned forward. "Given the need for secrecy from the majority of the Muggle world, it made sense, considering the times.

"Back then, Muggles _believed_. They believed wholeheartedly in magic, in the supernatural . . . and that all magic was a gift of the Devil, in return for the sale of the soul. What do you think would have happened if little Muggle children disappeared off to school for ten months of the year, came back . . . and maybe, just on accident, something _strange_ happened?

"Nowadays, things are different. Most people, if they saw something caused by magic, would shrug it off as a hallucination, maybe swear off whatever recreational drugs they are currently ingesting. But they wouldn't _believe_ in the magic, so they would never think to come looking for the source.

"The world is a lot bigger, now, too. So what if a Muggle child is off at a magical boarding school three-quarters of the year? So are half his neighbors, to a more mundane variety. And even if he were the only one at a boarding school, there are enough other people around that no one really _cares_."

A pause. "Or, the few who do, are so disregarded by everyone else that it comes to essentially the same thing. No one believes a crazy person who claims that magic really exists. He gestured expansively. "My previous opinions are outdated now."

"Whoa." Draco held up his hands in laughing surrender. "My friend, you're preaching to the _(reluctantly)_ converted. No need to get all up in arms."

"One thing hasn't changed, at least." Jamie grinned sheepishly and pulled at his ponytail. "I still have an almost Gryffindor tendency to speechify at the drop of a hat."

"How fitting, considering that the hat Sorted you there." Draco had an evil grin on his face, a slightly adjusted version of the familiar (and infamous) Lucifer 'I've-got-embarrassing-material-on-you-and-I-know-how-to-use-it' smile.

Once again, Jamie petitioned Merlin over this . . . situation . . . he found himself in. _Why do I get the feeling I'm_ never _going to live this down . . .?_

* * *

_". . . Henrietta Lucia Malfoy . . . Harry Potter . . ."_

Cho stared, unseeing, at the book in front of her. _It is such an impossible scenario . . . yet it explains everything. The odd resemblance to Harry, the scar-even if it is not the conventional lightning-her comment about desperately wanting to be put into_ Slytherin _-how could she not, having been raised as a Malfoy?_

_It explains so much, it can hardly_ not _be true. But . . ._

Ruefully, she acknowledged that her analytical mind, her pride-as only a Ravenclaw can be truly proud and sure of their ability to reason out anything-was for once interfering instead of helping her in her quest to solve this . . . situation.

_It_ is _real. Stop trying to come up with logical reasons why it can't be true and accept it._ Believe _it. Harry was telling the truth-how could she not have been, under Veritaserum?-and the rest of her story, told willingly, matches up with the involuntary clues she has dropped._

It all fits _, so stop whining and accept as truth that alternate universes_ do _exist, and that your partner in Survival and more-or-less friend comes from one of them._

"Cho? Is something wrong?"

Startled, she looked up. After a moment, her mind-happy to return to something it _could_ wrap itself around-provided a name to go with the face. "No, Terry, I'm fine."

Terry Boot shifted slightly in place, his body instinctively following the impulses of his thoughts and taking a more implacable position. "No, you're not. Something is bothering you. I can tell-you've been staring at that same page for at least the last five minutes. And Justine has been complaining incessantly, so I know very well that the Transfiguration test you're 'studying' for is tomorrow."

He backed down suddenly. "Look, I'm not asking you to tell me, but is there anything I can do to help?"

Cho shook her head, though touched by the offer. "I was just preoccupied. I think I've gotten it pretty well figured out by now, though." She smiled suddenly. "Thanks."

"For what?"

"For not treating me like I'm made of glass."

"Merlin!" Terry's eyes flew wide open. "I completely _forgot_ . . . I hope I didn't bring back any bad . . . urgh . . ."

Cho stood. "This has gone on long enough. _Sonorus._ "

She looked around the room. "Ahem. If I could have everyone's attention?" People looked up from their books; there was the expected amount of grumbling-these are Ravenclaws, after all. "All, or most of you, knew that I was going out with Cedric Diggory last year at the time of his . . . death." That was the hardest part, but she finally forced the word out.

Plus, it had the benefit of gathering everyone's undivided attention. "As a result, most, if not all of you, have been walking carefully around me these last few months. I appreciate your sympathy, really I do. But it's got to stop."

"Yes, I think I may have loved Cedric. Yes, he died. And yes, I still miss him . . . I think I always will. But life goes on."

"I can't guarantee that I won't ever again get sad when something inadvertently reminds me of him, or that I won't ever cry. But it's time that you stop trying so hard to refrain from reminding me. It's time that I move on . . . it's time that we all do."

"Remember Cedric, but remember also who brought him down. Remember that Voldemort still lives, unpunished for the deed he has committed-of which Cedric's death is one of the least. The time for mourning is over, and the time for action has come."

"But what can we do? We're just students." Little second-year Orla Quirke, who had lost a half-brother during the Dark Years. Bitterly, "Even if we wanted to take part in the fight, the adults wouldn't let us."

"What do we do? We prepare ourselves for the future, for Voldemort if he is still around by then, or for the next evil that appears." A genuine smile broke onto Cho's face. "We do what Ravenclaws do best, of course."

"We study!"

* * *

". . . you never did answer me about my dagger. And your eyes are still twinkling. Give."

Jamie let out an extremely martyred sigh. "Must you ruin _everything_? Here I was, thinking it would make a perfect birthday present . . ."

"What?!" Draco bolted upright from his lounging position on the bed, outraged. "You were going to wait to return _my_ property to _me_ until _March_?!"

Raised eyebrow. ". . . no . . ." Drawled slowly to give Draco the feeling that he had just said something rather stupid. "Tell me, when is your birthday, _Draco Malfoy_?"

"You should know that as well as or better than me, considering how many years you've helped me celebrate it." Draco snapped. "Are you finally going senile, Sal'? March thirty-" Finally the light of dawning comprehension. "Oh. October 17. Right."

"Right." The black-haired boy rubbed his forehead. "Oh, well, I suppose getting your present a week or two early won't hurt you too badly. And since you'll whine at me until you get it . . ."

Draco drew the remains of his dignity around him. "I do not whine."

"Hm . . . perhaps you're right. As Luce', you whined. But as Draco, I do believe you've managed to elevate it to a veritable art form."

Draco's mouth dropped open at the sheer magnitude of that . . . that blatant falsehood. Then, rallying, "Well, it's better than that manipulative pout you do that makes you look like a . . . a kicked puppy! _No one_ should be able to do that; it's just too unfair to the rest of us who have to try to _resist_ it."

Jamie considered this. "Well, you may be in luck-I'm awfully out of practice. I don't know that I could summon up a decent pout if I tried." He took something out of his pocket, a something that, enlarged, turned out to be Draco's dagger. "So, have you changed your mind about wanting this back? I'm sure, if you insist, I could find it in my heart to refrain from returning it to you until March 30th."

"You do, I prove to you that I can too still thrash you-despite recent evidence to the contrary." From the sour look on his face, Draco's recent streak of losses to the ex-Gryffindor in their impromptu spars was _not_ appreciated by said Slytherin.

Jamie laughed. "That sounds rather like a challenge to me." He remarked with deceptive innocence, tossing Draco his long dagger-a weapon which was so remarkably well fitted to him that even the distance of thousands of years and a bond that no longer bound them together, Jamie had recognized its call, and in that call immediately recognized Draco. "Now, if only I could recall exactly where I left _my_ daggers . . . damn my swiss-cheesed memories, anyway . . ."

Draco could only nod his frustrated agreement, as he strapped the dagger on with the ease of long practice. There was a disconcerting moment, as he adjusted to doing so with so much smaller a body-he had been a bit on the short end of the spectrum as Lucifer as well, but this was bloody ridiculous!-but soon enough it settled on, like the old friend it was, and as he tightened the straps that last little bit, it faded into invisibility. _Good. Nice to know that those particular embedded spells really_ do _last practically forever, the way they were supposed to . . ._

In that first, illuminating moment, he had been given the impression that he knew everything, that his previous life-and all the information he had gathered over the nearly two hundred years he had lived, all those spells and potions that had been lost through time-was an open book to him.

But when that first flush faded, he found himself hitting unexpected stumbling blocks. There was a lot of information that he knew he had known, but whenever he tried to remember it specifically, he couldn't. Important events-his bonding to Salazar, the death of his parents, his twin sister's wedding, _her_ death in childbirth, leaving him to raise her daughter as his own-were as clear as if they had happened yesterday.

Still, no more than Jamie could he remember where Salazar had hidden his daggers. He remembered where many of the ancient runes he was studying came from, but generally had no more idea than before what they meant.

The execution of the Necromancy sets of spells-spells at which he had once been the foremost adept in the world-were just as much a mystery to him now as they were to a wizarding era in which only few scholars, if even that, recalled that Necromancy had once been fact, a genuine branch of magical study, not just a fairy tale with which to scare children.

Then again . . . considering how happy-how just flat _ecstatic_ Voldemort would be to gain the secrets to Necromancy . . . and how increasingly likely it seemed that he would probably fall into the Dark Lord's hands at some point . . . perhaps it was just as well that he could no longer remember any specifics.

* * *

"I'm resigning."

"Gred?"

"Yes, Forge?"

"I do believe I'm either growing senile or hallucinating."

"Sadly, I heard it too. Harry Potter, the youngest and most successful Seeker in a century or more, just said he was resigning."

". . . that's what I was afraid you would say."

"Boys. _Honestly_ . . ." Angelina rolled her eyes. "Why, Harry? You're one of the best players we have . . . next year, you'll be the _only_ old one left."

"All the more reason to get more and younger players in now." He pointed out with impeccable logic.

"But _why_?"

Jamie bit his thumbnail. "Conflict of interests. I have friends- _close_ friends-in other Houses now. I don't _think_ they would try to convince me to betray the team . . . but it's not fair to the team to stay on it when I have such divided loyalties. You deserve a Seeker whose only loyalty is to Gryffindor." _So that, when the time comes, I can move on to Slytherin with no regrets._

Giving up Quidditch hurt, but not quite as much as he had expected it to. Perhaps because Salazar had never played the sport, so _that_ half of himself was helping buffer the rest of him. Perhaps because he had already found a surrogate obsession in his love for Potions. Most likely, some combination of both.

"We're not going to be able to convince you otherwise, are we?" Angelina sighed. "Sometimes, I really hate Gryffindor stubbornness . . ."

Jamie shrugged, a deprecating smile on his face. _Slytherins are at least as stubborn, many times, if not more so . . . they just tend to be slightly quieter about it._

". . . do you at least have any good ideas for a replacement?"

"I think" _know_ "that Harry Evans is nearly as good as me, although I get the idea that she's not all that interested in Quidditch, so you may have to do some convincing."

To a man, the other five members of the team-all acquainted, at least briefly, with the transfer student that looked so much like their star Seeker-exchanged a Look, the same thought reflected clearly in all their eyes.

_Why am I not surprised?_

* * *

For once, instead of the Slytherin pair, it was Parvati and Lucia who were the sole inhabitants of the Survival room. The latter leaned back with a sigh. "I can see why Jamie comes up here so often. It's . . . nice, and much quieter than Gryffindor Tower. The quiet can get a bit . . . stifling . . . but then, I think Jamie has a much higher tolerance for that sort of thing than I do."

Parvati nodded her agreement. "What it really needs is some nice background music. Too bad nothing electronic works inside Hogwarts."

"Beatles?"

"Nah. Bee Gees." Parvati wagged her tail at the thought of her 'collection' of Bee Gees CDs at home-her mother, while a witch, had grown up in a Muggle neighborhood . . . as had she and her sister, perhaps because of that. So she knew nearly as much as the run-of-the-mill Muggleborn about Muggle stuff.

"Er . . . Parvati?" Lucia stared at her friend, fascinated by the moving appendage. ". . . Why do you suddenly have a tail . . .?"

Parvati started. "Wha?!" Looked at her backside where, sure enough, there was a nice sturdy-looking tail, a pleasant dark brown that matched her hair, somehow poking out through her robes without tearing a hole in them. For a moment, her brain froze.

Then, slowly, she grinned. "Yes! Want to see something neat, Lucia?"

"Um . . ." Lucia gave the elder Patil twin an odd look. "Sure?"

"Well . . . here goes nothing . . ." Parvati closed her eyes and concentrated.

Pop!

Lucia stared. "Parvati . . . you . . . you're an Animagus?!"

The dark brown Lab jumped her, licking her face enthusiastically, before bouncing away and returning to Parvati, wearing a smug smile. "That's what the book Harry-the other Harry-gave me was." She dug around in her bag, reemerging with a small bound volume and a smile that passed smug into a veritable smirk. "Really, for Slytherins, they're awfully careless. They didn't even notice when I . . . kept it."

"They? Slytherin? But Jamie's a Gryffindor, the same as you or I . . ."

"His partner-in-crime is Draco Malfoy-though I'm almost certain he hasn't told him about you. And, Harry . . ." She hesitated. "I think this is part of why you two disagree so often and so vehemently . . ."

"Do you _really_ think the other Harry-Jamie, you called him?-do you really think Jamie is still a Gryffindor in anything more than name?"

Lucia looked troubled. "But . . . he's _Gryffindor_. The Sorting Hat doesn't lie."

"People change." Parvati pointed out. "Maybe the potential was always there within him, to be Slytherin, but it was his Gryffindor side that was ascendant."

_-the hat would have put me in Slytherin if I had let it-_

Lucia blinked as the memory of that night-her first night in this world-flashed back strongly. "You may be right . . . but . . . it's just wrong. Jamie is Harry Potter. He should be in Gryffindor. Not Slytherin."

"Why don't you like the House, Harry?" _Oh, this is such a bad idea, Parvati . . . shut up right now, before you break your friendship with her irreparably_ "Your brother was a Slytherin, wasn't he?" Imagining Draco Malfoy as anything _but_ Slytherin was, frankly, impossible.

"I'd think you'd be happy that Jamie could find such a friend in him."

* * *

"Pansy." Jamie nodded cordially to the dark-haired Slytherin. "Nice to see you again. So she's your witness, Draco?" With their memories back, both had remembered a bit of information forgotten over the centuries-their bond was not fully set yet. That could only be done by a private ceremony, one witness each, in which they also made an exchange of magical power.

With ordinary palm-bonds, it didn't increase the power of the bond significantly-probably the main reason the ceremony had fallen into obscurity-and the only real new benefit is that they could use each others' wands like their own. Something important in the times of constant battle that had shaped Salazar and Lucifer's early lives, that became less a necessity as the wars started becoming fewer and people began becoming more 'civilized'.

The blond nodded. "I've known Pansy practically all my life. She's like a sister to me."

"We're next door neighbors." Pansy added, eyes alight with humour. "Or as close as one can get, with huge manors and 'backyards' acres wide." She nodded. "Nice to meet you, Chang."

Cho looked a bit shell-shocked at the civility between Jamie and the two Slytherins, but she still managed a fairly decent return nod. "Parkinson."

Harry noted the way Draco's gaze lingered on Cho's face and the barest hint of pink brushing his cheeks. _Oh ho . . . I remember a few of_ your _habits, too, Lucifer old pal . . . I wonder how long_ this _particular crush will last . . ._ He said nothing, however. He also remembered how vicious Luce' could get when teased, especially in that period of time before he realized himself that he was attracted.

_That_ was one situation in which Salazar's defeat in a spar had been assured, even if the rest of the time they were fairly evenly matched.

"Exactly what do you want us for, anyway?" Cho asked. "You didn't explain anything, just that you needed my-our, I presume-help."

"I'll tell you once we're inside." Jamie replied, turning to the door and placing his palm on the panel. "Cedric."

Inured to it by now, Cho barely flinched; it did, however, surprise an unreadable look onto Pansy's face. Taking the better part of valour, she remained quiet, but it was obvious that she was storing the information away for later thought.

The door slid open. "Draco Malfoy is _nothing_ like my brother." Lucia's voice, a razor's edge away from hysteria.

Thinking quickly, Jamie started trying to shoo the other three away from the door. "Maybe this isn't such a good time after all . . . maybe later . . ."

He could see in Cho's eyes that she _knew_ , as she belatedly started helping him try to dissuade the native Slytherins. "This doesn't really concern us . . ."

"Are you sure about that? People are often made to seem larger than life once they're dead, after all." Parvati's voice, coldly calculating. Jamie's opinion of her rose; it was obvious she knew _exactly_ what she was doing, provoking Lucia this way.

Why . . . it was almost Slytherin of her. He smiled a small smile, before returning his attention abruptly to the real problem. "On the contrary," Draco was mildly disagreeing with Cho's statement, "it seems that this concerns me most of all." He turned his head in Jamie's direction; raised an eyebrow. "More secrets, Sal'?"

Pansy nodded, her eyes hardened with determination. "And that which concerns Draco concerns me as well . . . unless _he_ tells me otherwise."

Jamie looked from one resolute face to the other and bit his lip. "Very well." _Amazing that I've managed to hide it this long, really. And better that they learn safely inside the Survival room, where they won't be able to_ use _the information . . ._ Now he shooed the others _into_ the room, firmly shutting the door and feeling the tingle as the wards that kept him from communicating what happened in this room relaxed.

With his newly-gained ability to actually see the wards, he was able to subtly affect them, applying the ward to Pansy as well. He wasn't knowledgeable enough to greatly change the wards in any way, and he greatly doubted he could tear them down; he couldn't make the wards except him from their ban on communication . . . but from a few minutes' study, he had found that extending that ban to someone who was not a part of Survival was child's play in comparison.

Livid was an understatement of Lucia's current state of mind. After the unnaturally long pause, when she began speaking again it was with an acid quality, a deadly quiet tone that he had _never_ heard her use before. "Give me some credit, Parvati. I lived with Draco for nearly fourteen years; I think I ought to know him by now."

In the background, on the edge of audibility, Pansy's voice. "I didn't know you had a sister, Draco."

Draco's voice, equally quiet, in reply. "Neither did I."

"Things _are_ _different_ in this universe. I didn't really believe Jamie when he first started trying to tell me, but it's true. _Malfoy_ is nothing like my brother. Snape is too cold, too distant; neither is he the godfather I loved-though he comes closer. And Harry Potter-" she laughed suddenly, a laugh with very little of humour to the sound. "We couldn't be more different if we tried!"

Parvati had seen them; her eyes widened. Jamie grimaced and mouthed 'Sorry, I couldn't stop them', but he wasn't sure she understood.

"We may be both Gryffindor," Draco, Pansy, and Jamie were all three convulsed with sudden, nearly silent 'coughing' fits; Cho eyed them strangely. _It seems Harry Evans/Malfoy/Potter-argh! This is so confusing!-isn't the only one keeping secrets . . ._ "but that's where the similarity ends."

"At least _he_ grew up knowing his birthright! No one knew who _I_ was; they all thought I had died along with Voldemort, so when he started making his presence known, no one-least of all me; I was a Malfoy, after all! Why should it have been my duty?-was prepared."

Jamie's lips tightened. _Here I thought she knew more of my life than that. I may have grown up knowing my name, yes . . . but my birthright? Pfeh. At least she knew she was a_ witch _. And I'd like to know when_ I _was asked if I wanted to go around trying to save the world . . . getting people killed in the process because I'm just not good enough yet . . ._

"An alternate universe . . ." in his depth of speculation and revelation, Draco's voice came out louder than he had probably planned; loud enough to catch the arguers' attention and bring an abrupt halt to Lucia's rant. ". . . it makes sense. It _all makes sense_!"

Lucia's eyes widened; Jamie could see-or perhaps he was just imagining, the hint of tears sparkling in their corners. She looked at-or, more correctly, past; through to some unseen point far beyond-Draco, and one hand crept up to her chest, convulsively closed.

Without another word, she fled.

Parvati sighed. "I suppose I should congratulate you . . . I don't think you could have had worse timing if you tried."

A smile quirked at the edge of Jamie's mouth. "Most likely. Are you going to go after her?" Oh, what the hell. If everyone in this room didn't already know, they had certainly been given enough clues that they would figure it out sooner or later anyway. "Despite frequent evidence to the contrary, I _do_ care deeply for her; I don't want to see her hurt any worse than necessary. She's like the sister I never had."

Parvati grinned slightly; it was a strained effort, but she managed it. "Take it from one who knows-even when siblings are not _nearly_ as different as you and Harry-even when _twins_ are not as different as you two-we still get into quite a few fights." She nodded. "Of course I'm going after her."

"Good. What you're doing to her needs to be done . . . but I think she is taking it better coming from you than from me."

Parvati rubbed her forehead, closing her eyes. "I beg leave to differ, but . . ." She shook her head, and left.

* * *

Snape turned away from the small mirror he had put beside his malicious energy indicator-a new addition that made his desk even more crowded than it already was, but was nonetheless invaluable for preventing him from going into a panic when he felt the malicious energy in the Survival room spike yet again. He had never expected Harry 'Evans' to be the originator of the energy, though-despite the fact that they were now good enough friends to consider bonding each other, he had really expected to tune in to another of Potter and Draco's spats.

_Harry . . . You have to call him 'Harry' now_ . . . He sighed, feeling the beginnings of yet another headache.

Well, at least it seemed like this particular situation had diffused itself without his intervention, so he turned back to his essays-seventh year Slytherins, this time, and quite an enjoyable read, for the most part-and spared little more thought for the now quiescent Survival room.

Except, perhaps, for some small corner of his mind, which wondered briefly why not only . . . Harry . . . and Draco, but also Cho and Pansy-who wasn't even in the class!-had arrived at the Survival room together, and what exactly they were planning on doing there.

He turned back to his essays. If it was anything important, he figured he'd find out about it eventually. No real need to try to find out now.

* * *

" _Now_ will you tell us what we are here for?"

"It has been nearly twenty-four hours since we bonded." Draco's lips twitched as he caught himself rubbing his thumb against the wrist that had been opened the previous night.

"Following tradition forgotten these many years past, we have come-each with, as a witness, one they trust greatly-to reaffirm that this bond was a correct decision and to cement it, that it will exist perpetually."

They shared a fond look at that; perpetually indeed. Even through mutual enmity-through being sorted into the Houses with the most against each other-they had managed to find each other once again.

Cho looked from Jamie to Draco, mouth open. "Bonded? As in . . . are you two . . . together?" She looked like she was having a hard time trying to wrap her mind around the thought.

"Romantically?!" Draco nearly squeaked. "No offense, Sal', but . . ."

"Ew." Jamie finished, grinning. "None taken." He shook his head. "No, most definitely not. This is the entirely platonic form of the bond."

Cho's eyes were crossed. "For some reason . . . that's almost _harder_ to believe. I knew you two were . . . well, not at each other's throats any more . . . but to _bond_ each other?"

Shrugs in unison. "The circumstances were just . . . right."

"So we took the chance when we had it."

". . . exactly what will we be doing?" Pansy asked. "I'm not at all familiar with this . . . reaffirmation ceremony you speak of."

They exchanged glances. "It should be fairly obvious. You'll have to affirm that you are acting as witness at one point, and then at the end you'll need to say 'So mote it be', but that's about it. It's more an honorary role than anything else."

"Hm." Cho eyes Jamie speculatively. "Someday, you're going to let me borrow the book you found all this information in." It was not a question.

Jamie just smiled enigmatically, knowing it would annoy the inquisitive Ravenclaw, and turned back to Draco, nodding to him.

"I, Draco Anton Malfoy-"

_-I, Lucifer Bryn de la Rossi-_

"-I, Harry James Potter-"

_-I, Salazar Rafael Slytherin-_

"-now affirm my decision to accept this bond and, in this acceptance, deepen it-"

"-for this is a bond that will endure for eternity, through sickness, through sadness, through individual joy and even through death."

"As my witness, I call Cho Chang." Jamie turned to Cho. "Will you witness my bonding to Draco Malfoy?"

"It is an honor to witness your bonding to Draco Malfoy." Cho replied, her voice almost entirely steady, though she could feel the power beginning to swirl through the room. It was not anything visible; just a prickling at the back of her neck, a feeling of something immense building.

In the background, muffled, she thought she heard Draco asking Pansy Parkinson the same question, but couldn't be sure; she was trapped by Harry's luminous eyes.

Then he turned away, back to Draco, and she finally relaxed. Those eyes . . . she could drown in those eyes; be incinerated by their intensity. For an entirely new reason, now, she was happy that he no longer had a crush on her. To be the sole focus of that intensity . . .

She shuddered in reaction. _I pity the one who finally captures the heart behind those eyes. She would have to be strong, or risk . . . losing herself entirely . . ._

* * *

"Go away." Parvati smiled a little as she approached her bed and sat down gently, running her fingers through Lucia's short hair in a soothing gesture. She had thought Lucia might come here, so this was the first place she had looked.

She stiffened under Parvati's touch, but did not move away. After a couple of moments, she uncurled a little, looking up at Parvati with reddened eyes. "Damn you." She whispered. "Damn you for making me remember . . . him. Damn you for making me cry."

"You would have eventually . . . you can't hide from the memory forever. Tears . . . they help, sometimes."

A negative movement. "But Malfoys don't cry." Tears leaked from now tightly shut eyelids. "And if I start remembering, his death will become real. I keep thinking, 'Someday, I'll return home, and he'll be there, and he'll hold out his arms to me, and say "Where were you? I was worried!" ' . . . and everything will be all right. But it won't. It won't ever be all right again." She had curled up again, this time towards Parvati. The tears flowed faster now, creating a darker damp spot on the burnished gold blanket. "I want to go home."

"I know." Parvati gazed off into the distance, eyes blank. _I don't want you to go . . ._

_I'm_ glad _, and ashamed that I'm glad, that as far as we know, there is no way for you to leave . . . yet you must. You have to confront what waits for you, back in your home reality, and I must let you go . . ._

It was a horrible feeling, tearing her heart in two. _I must smile, and bid you good bye, knowing you'll never return. I have to try to find a way to send you back home, if I can, because you'll never be happy here. Not like this._ Her fingers tightened in her friend's hair for a moment, before she forced them slack again. Reluctantly, inexorably, she withdrew her hand entirely, placing it in her lap.

A small noise, a bit of a shift _(in protest?)_ , and she realized that in the short time she had been silent, Lucia had fallen asleep. Shaking her head fondly, she smiled a little, sadly, and repeated solely for her own benefit, "I know."

* * *

Snape's head shot up from where it had previously been bent over Beth's essay-a work of art, as always-to focus on the caltrop. It lay quiescent, yet he could _feel_ the buildup of power in the Survival room. It had an oddly familiar feel, at that . . .

_Of course! The burst of power at Draco and Harry's bonding last night . . ._

He stood. It seemed like there _was_ something worth his notice going on in the Survival room, after all . . .

* * *

He reached the room and opened the door just as the power-which had grown to rather insane levels-abruptly disappeared. "So mote it be." Pansy and Chang chorused.

Tiny tendrils of reminiscent power, the shadow of the previous levels, still tinted the air as Jamie and Draco grinned at each other. "It's good to be back." They chorused, in even more perfect unison than Pansy and Chang had accomplished.

Snape crossed his arms and asked mildly, "What is going on here?"

The grins immediately wiped off Jamie and Draco's face as they said in a sing-song tone of voice, "Nothing, Professor Snape."

He didn't even dignify _that_ with any more of an answer than the raising of a single eyebrow, as he turned the majority of his attention to the one most likely to cave, that sixth-year Ravenclaw, Cho Chang.

"Some sort of ceremony to more fully cement the . . ." she trailed off. "Crap. Does he know?" Her face was red from the realization that she may have just betrayed something important.

"He was there." Still the eerie duality of voices.

"Would you stop that?" Pansy asked irritably.

"Sorry." This time, only Draco spoke, though Jamie looked like he was about to.

"It's . . . you could say it's a bit of a side-effect. Mixing our magic made us . . . well, effectively one person for a moment or two there; it just takes a bit of time before we sort ourselves back out into the two separate people we are." Jamie added.

"You mixed your magic?" Snape's eyes narrowed. _I was not aware that that was even possible . . . it would definitely explain why so much power had gathered. I wouldn't be surprised if Albus decided to look in . . ._

_. . . Merlin. What am I going to tell him about Harry and Draco? He'll skin me alive . . ._

"It was to cement the bond." They began to chorus, but after a brief exchange of looks, Jamie dropped out in the middle of a word. "It used to be a very common practice."

"I've never heard of this . . . practice . . ." He drawled doubtfully.

"Just because you've never heard of something, doesn't mean it doesn't exist." They chanted.

_Not that sing-song tone_ again _. . .  
_

* * *

Cho wandered back to the Ravenclaw dorms, deep in thought, a book she had found just lying on the floor in her hands. She figured she'd look at it, see if it gave any clue as to who was the owner . . . otherwise, she'd just return it to the library.

That had been an . . . enlightening . . . period of time. A Malfoy and a Potter, bonded. Who would have ever guessed? She chuckled suddenly. _If Lucius Malfoy were dead, he'd be spinning in his grave for sure._

"What's that?" Man, there was just something about her and letting Terry Boot sneak up on her today . . . this was the second time in not too much longer than as many hours. She rolled her eyes as the fifth-year plucked the book from her arms.

Immediately his face contorted with a mild form of disgust. "A book on the history of Muggle _ballet_?" Hastily, he handed the book back to her. "Well, I suppose, if that's what interests you . . ." And retreated.

_Ballet?_ Not her first choice of topics, certainly, but it sounded rather interesting. She wandered up to her room-unlike the other Houses, Ravenclaw Prefects' rooms were joined to the ordinary dorms. In a House as intelligently-minded as Ravenclaw, the prefect distinction meant even less than normal; prefects still joined in what little social life Ravenclaw had just as if they were normal students, so it was no real surprise that their rooms weren't separated away, either.

Kicking off her shoes, she fell onto the bed with a bounce, and opened the book, eager to lose herself in the words and put off, for a time, thinking of Harry and bonding and Slytherins . . . and Draco . . . all the difficult, _real_ topics.

_". . . You can read this journal of mine, which means you have the potential to become one of us . . ."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 April 2003


	13. Death and Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *curls into a tiny ball* I'm really really really sorry I haven't gotten the review answers posted for the last chapter yet. And this chapter doesn't have them either, since I assumed you'd rather go ahead and have the chapter, instead of having to wait the extra couple of days it would take if I had to get around to answering the reviews first.
> 
> So, let it be said: Manymanymany thank yous to everyone who has reviewed this story, especially those of you who took the time and effort to leave me long reviews; but even the short ones have a disturbing ability to make my day. ^^;;
> 
> I will get the review answers out for both these chapters. Before Chapter 14 comes out. I promise.
> 
> So . . . out more-or-less on time for once, perhaps the only chapter I had planned out from beginning to end . . . that finally got so long that I ended up cutting it off in the middle. *sighs*
> 
> Btw, Harry Potter and Severitus' Challenge still don't belong to me. Just in case you were wondering.

_"Ah, ever-faithful Severus." Was there mockery in that sibilant voice? "Did you miss me, my pet?"_

_The Potion Master's head was bowed, the longish greasy strands hiding his face from view_ (Is that why he keeps it long all the time?) _"Of course, my Lord. I wished to come to you straight-away, but the old fool would have been suspicious. It is probably just as well, as, since the boy didn't see me among your ranks, he-and the old fool-believe me to be on their side." Such delicate contempt, so incredibly well crafted. "And I didn't want to come after that without your summoning me-it seemed presumptuous of me."_

_An ominous pause-of course, bringing up Harry Potter, even so obliquely, was never the brightest idea. Even before that particular incident, mention of the Potter family had the ability to set him off like little else. "You thought. You know I frown upon independent thinking in my followers-yet the conclusion you drew was not to think-which I cannot help but approve of." A somewhat sibilant laugh. "Ah, but I have missed your little paradoxes, my pet. It is really too bad that I will never have a son of yours in my ranks. I am sure he would have proved just as amusing as his father."_

_"I am sorry, my Lord, that I was so unwise as to fall for that mudblood." His voice sounded stifled, stilted. "I was young . . . and, unfortunately, I_ am _a Snape . . ."_

_"And your first love is also your last. I know my history, pet. It is presumptuous of you to try to teach me."_

_"Of course. I am sorry, my Lord."_

_A dismissive wave. "Forgiven. At least the lowborn bitch is dead. Better no heir than a tainted one, after all."_

_His voice was most definitely stilted, and his shoulders tense, now. "Indeed, my Lord."_

_"And my other little assignment? You_ have _brought the child, have you not?"_

_"As you commanded, my Lord." He regained his feet in one fluid motion. "I have brought Blaise Zabini to you."_

_"Excellent." A gesture, and out of the surrounding shadows a new figure stepped forward. "I heard from your uncle that you might be interested in being . . . shall we say? . . . an inside_ student _source at Hogwarts."_

_Blaise opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His mouth closed again, and he sighed. "I'm sorry, Professor Snape. I can't." A shaky step forward, raising his chin defiantly. "I hate you, Voldemort, and everything you stand for. I would rather_ die _than follow you."_

_"So be it." As Voldemort's face cleared, it seemed almost-for a moment, no more-that the pale visage conveyed a sense of sorrow . . . no, only of disappointment. "Pet? You know the punishment for traitors."_

_Snape closed his eyes for a moment. "Please, my Lord. He was my student . . . my Slytherin . . ."_

_"Are you saying that you are more loyal to your students than you are to me?" Threat had threaded its way into the seemingly innocent question._

_Snape's eyes snapped back open, blank. "No, my Lord. I am loyal." He swallowed. "My foremost loyalty is to you. Only you."_

_"Then . . .?" A sense of impatience._

_Blaise had turned to face Snape, and now nodded, slowly, once. Snape licked his lips._

_"_ Avada Kedavra _."_

* * *

_"Snape!" he shouted. "Severus Snape!"_

_"Snape has been cleared by this council," said Crouch coldly. "He has been vouched for by Albus Dumbledore."_

_"No!" shouted Karkaroff, straining at the chains which bound him to the chair. "I assure you! Severus Snape is a Death Eater!"_

_Dumbledore had got to his feet. "I have given evidence already on this matter," he said calmly. "Severus Snape was indeed a Death Eater. However, he rejoined our side before Lord Voldemort's downfall and turned spy for us, at great personal risk. He is now no more a Death Eater than I am."_

* * *

_". . . don't see what there is to fuss about, Igor."_

_"Severus, you cannot pretend this isn't happening!" Karkaroff's voice sounded anxious and hushed, as though keen not to be overheard. "It's been getting clearer and clearer for months, I am becoming seriously concerned, I can't deny it-"_

_"Then flee," said Snape's voice curtly. "Flee, and I will make your excuses. I, however, am remaining at Hogwarts."_

* * *

_He had reached the largest gap of all, and he stood surveying it with his blank, red eyes, as though he could see people standing there._

_"And here we have six missing Death Eaters . . . three dead in my service. One, to cowardly to return . . . he will pay. One, who I believe has left me for ever . . . he will be killed, of course . . . and one, who remains my most faithful servant, and who has already re-entered my service."_

* * *

He bolted upright, wiping his sweating face with shaking hands, trying to regain his composure. _What was_ that _?_

He was certainly no stranger to vivid dreams. But even his dreams of Cedric had gradually faded away to nothing within a week of his return to Hogwarts; the dreams of Lucia had, not surprisingly, stopped the night after he rescued her from her world. Which meant that his sleep had been almost entirely peaceful-not even normal dreams, most nights-for over a month; nearly a month and a half.

So what was this? And why now?

In sudden decision, he vaulted to his feet. He had to know if this had been a mere dream, a true vision, or a premonition. _"One, who I believe has left me for ever . . ."_ Voldemort's voice rang in his head, suddenly, a flash from the latter part of his dream, which had, itself, been the return of a memory.

Karkaroff _had_ fled.

But if Voldemort knew that Snape was the traitor, then why had he seemed so willing to let the Potions Master back into the fold? It didn't make sense . . . unless he was trying to trap Snape, to lure him into a false sense of security.

Unfortunately, it would work. After having killed Blaise-assuming that it _was_ a true vision, as he desperately hoped it wasn't-there was no way Snape wouldn't stop spying. Otherwise, he'd think Blaise's death had been in vain; he'd continue to bring in what information he could, no matter what the expense to himself.

Worried enough that he neglected even to bring his Invisibility Cloak along, he ghosted down the hall at top speed, headed for the one small section of Hogwarts that had become his _true_ second home. The door opened at his touch to the well-hidden fingerprint-identifier in the lower left-hand corner, and he made his way with the ease of familiarity to the fifth-year boys' dorm.

Only once inside did he finally crumble, sitting gingerly on the empty bed, beginning to rock back and forth, the occasional tear slipping, unnoticed, down his cheeks. Tears for Blaise, a boy he had never known well; who would never have the chance to sleep on this bed again. Tears for Slytherin, which had lost one who was friendly to all, enemy to few; which still slept, unknowing of the tragedy that had befallen one of its own. Tears for Professor Snape, who had been forced to kill a child he would have died to protect, in the name of the greater good but probably futilely; it was doubtful that Voldemort would trust his arrant minion again so easily.

And perhaps-just perhaps-a few tears for himself, for the constant loss that seemed to dog his life, always tearing away those who dared associate with him. Just perhaps, a few tears for the fact that now, he never _would_ have a chance to get to know the Slytherin boy who had proven to have the courage of a hundred Gryffindors.

* * *

Hands clenched convulsively; eyes squeezed tighter shut before opening to gaze, bewildered, out into the dark room. "Sal?"

He could still feel it. Sorrow and guilt and compassion and pity; a maelstrom of emotions blasted him over the bond-and it would _have_ to be a blast; the bond did not allow them to share every waking though or, indeed, any thoughts at all, and the only times they had ever picked up emotions from each other had always been when the feelings were particularly strong.

Their bond had changed slightly-not surprising, considering the multitude of small differences there were between Salazar and Harry, between himself as Lucifer and as Draco-but not appreciably, in this case. Not that he thought as two different people, though there were occasional times when he experienced a strange sense of dichotomy.

Enough of that. He threw off his covers in a single movement that spoke of suppressed violence and stood, wiping the last of the sleep from his eyes as he yawned. If Sal were that much of an emotional wreck, he'd need him nearby, whether or not the stubborn Gryffindor/Slytherin would admit it.

As he drifted through the halls, he passed beside a well-known faded plaque. _Probably not a bad idea, actually . . ._ He rapped on the stretch of stone wall to the right, hoping his House Head was in and not out searching the halls for unsuspecting Gryffindors. Finally, it slid open, revealing the Professor wearing black robes that seemed somewhat more ornate than usual, a haunted look on his face. One that quickly faded to neutrality. "Draco? What is it?" He stepped back. "Do you want to come in?"

He shook his head. "No. I just thought you might be of help . . . it's Sa-Harry. He's . . . really upset by something, though I can't tell what." Draco licked his lips. "And I think he's down in the Lair."

Snape tossed something to a nearby table-something Draco hadn't even noticed him holding until then. Something that looked a great deal like some sort of mask, made of a silvery shade of material. His heart stopped. _So_ that's _why he's wearing better robes than usual._ A tiny voice at the back of his head quipped. He recognized the mask; he had seen his father's more than once, after all.

_I'm bringing a Death Eater to Harry Potter, after having informed him that he's not exactly in the most aware state. This would be such a bad idea . . . so why do I still trust Severus? He's my godfather, but that doesn't exactly mean much when my father would surely have chosen someone whose ideals matched up with his own . . ._

_Then again, he's had plenty of time to do something before now. I suppose I just have to hope that he won't do anything this time, either. For his sake as well . . . considering how much more viciously Sal tends to react when he's extremely upset . . ._

He shook his head. "Follow me."

Snape did as he was bid. "Is it the bond?"

A curt nod. Draco found himself speeding up, though the feelings hadn't increased in intensity as far as he could tell. Perhaps it was just that, by outpacing his Potions professor, he somehow thought he could outpace the realization that Snape truly was a Death Eater, too. He supposed he had always kind of known . . . but knowing and having the point driven home so _clearly_ were two entirely different things.

The door to the fifth-year boys dorm was ajar, most definite proof of the state Jamie had been in when he passed this way. Normally, he would never forget to pay attention to such a large detail as that. He crept forward, cautiously, motioning to Snape to stay back. "Sal?" He called softly. "Sali, what's wrong?"

"Don't call me Sali." Muffled, but with an undertone of humour that relaxed Draco considerably. He wasn't _too_ far gone, then. "I had a dream . . . a vision . . . that Blaise died."

There was some sort of muffled exclamation from behind him, but, for the moment, Draco ignored his godfather. "It was just a dream, Harry." As his eyes adjusted to the room, he became suddenly uncertain when he noted that Jamie was the only occupant of the bed that had belonged to Blaise these last four years. "He's probably just off going to the restroom. Or wandering the halls in search of mischief to perpetrate." He settled down on the bed beside Jamie; began rubbing his hand in slow circles along the other's back.

"You may not have noticed-in fact, I'm almost certain you haven't-but Blaise has always been one of the most ingenious pranksters. I'm just generally the one who ends up taking the fall for him, because he has this unique ability to blend into the background, while I usually end up in the spotlight."

"It's your hair, I think." Jamie noted, deadpan, as he leaned against Draco with a sigh. "But it wasn't just a dream, Luce." His attention was drawn away, towards the door, where he pinned the professor standing there with a penetrating gaze. "Was it, Professor Snape?"

"No." He whispered bleakly. "No, it wasn't."

"No one will find out from me." Jamie said, and Draco got the feeling that he was being left out of the conversation completely now. "But in the end, it won't change anything. He already knows . . . so he'll keep on testing you . . . until you give up and prove him right."

"But what else can I do? _This_ is my penance . . . heavier than ever, now."

"Just don't forget that there _are_ people who will miss you when you die." Jamie stood and drifted out of the room. "Probably more than you suspect."

_When, not if._ Even if he didn't understand the latter part of the conversation, to Draco, that part was the scariest of all.

* * *

Cho flipped through the book, fascinated. A guide to becoming an Animagus . . . she wondered where Parvati had found it. At least, she assumed it was Parvati. It could have been Lucia . . . but for some reason, that didn't really seem right.

Especially since she couldn't see Lucia as a dog, a bat, or a fox, whereas she could quite easily see loyal Parvati a Labrador; Jamie could be a bat, and the only person she could possibly see as a fox was Draco.

She wanted to do this too, she realized, despite the sacrifice necessary. After all, if the ultimate spoiled brat, Draco Malfoy, could go for two nights with very little sleep and three days with very little food, how hard could it be? And . . . well, her speech earlier that evening had been mostly impromptu, but there had been more than kernels of truth hidden within. _This_ could be an important tool in the upcoming war, so if she really wanted to help, this would be an excellent chance to prove her determination.

She wondered what she would be? And flipped the last page to a blank one. Strangely, at least half the book was populated by blank pages. Nonplussed, she glared at the pages thoughtfully. If the previous page had been on finishing the process-and it had-what else could possibly be left to say?

As she watched, overly ornate black letters began to fade onto the page: _The Marauders' FAQ_

She blinked. _Alright, Cho. Bedtime for you . . ._ Rubbed her eyes. No, the letters were still there. Who were 'the Marauders', anyway?

_Well? Which are you? The bat, the fox, or the dog?_ The lettering was red this time.

Her eyebrows twitched; she brought her quill and ink out and, carefully, wrote, 'None of them. I haven't gotten around to it yet. I do have a few guesses, though . . .'

_Let's hear them, then. Better than boredom, at any rate._ Dark blue.

'I think the dog is a Gryffindor fifth-year, Parvati Patil.'

_Patil?_ The dark blue lettering was still in control. _Sounds familiar. I think I know her dad. He's an asshole._

_Padfoot . . ._ A burnished gold remonstrated. _Sorry, continue?_

'The fox is-I'm almost certain-a Slytherin fifth-year, Draco Malfoy.'

_Now_ he's _an asshole._ The gold snapped onto the page. _His father, I mean-I assume his father is Lucius Malfoy, at least?-my dad works with him._

_What year is this?_ Pale green faded onto the page, almost shyly.

'. . . October 1995'

_Dude . . . it took nearly_ twenty years _for someone to find this thing?_ The blue lettering was back. _That clinches it. You hid it too well, Prongs._

_Sorry._ The red lettering. _Not my fault that no one ever looks up anything in the_ Transfiguration _section of the library anymore . . . anyway, who do you think the bat is?_

'Oh, right . . . a Gryffindor fifth-year, Harry Potter.'

The book was blank of any new converse for a full minute, maybe even two.

_That is just . . . so wrong._ The gold. _On so many levels._

_I wouldn't do that . . ._ The red. _What on Earth could have possibly possessed me . . .?_

_Hey, kid?_ The blue. _Could you bring me Prongsie's older self? I've got a bone or two I'd like to pick with him . . ._

'How can I do that when I don't know who Prongs is?'

_James Potter._ The gold, red, and blue seemed to practically fall over themselves in their haste to answer.

'Oh.' _Damn it . . . how can I put this delicately._ 'I can't. He's . . . um . . . he's dead. Has been for nearly fourteen years.'

_Holy shit_. The red-or was it James Potter? Or Prongs?-whispered. _How?_

So the Ravenclaw sixth-year found herself explaining the recent history of the world-especially as pertained to a certain scar-headed boy-to a book. _You know, this ought to feel a lot weirder than it does._ She mused.

There was only one interruption, and that from the pale green-odd that; it was generally the quietest of the group. _Wait. Back up a second. Did you say_ Lily _Potter? As in Lily Evans?_

'Yeah . . . I think so . . .'

_Oh. Um . . . no. I may hate Snape, but steal away his girlfriend?!_ The red was darker than usual, seeming almost offended. _No. Especially since it's_ Lily _. She's like a sister to me. . . . well, maybe more like a distant cousin. We don't really interact that much. But me and her_ together _? There must be some mistake._

_Really._ The gold. _Honestly, Prongs, of_ all _the girls to pick from to throw us over for . . ._

_She's not even that pretty._ The blue.

_Oh, like you're one to judge . . ._ The pale green. _I'm the straight member of the group, remember? And I can assure you, she's a whole lot prettier than any of you weirdos._

_Oi, Wormtail! That's cold!_ The blue protested. _You know you love us . . ._

_Of course I do. The same way I love my bratty little six-year-old cousin._

This was beginning to get out of hand. 'Okay, wait a second. So you're trying to tell me that Lily Potter was actually _Snape's_ girlfriend, and James Potter was part of a threesome with the gold ink'

_Remus Lupin_. The gold offered helpfully.

'. . . with Professor Lupin and-'

_Ooh, I was a teacher? Cool. I wonder in what?_ The gold, getting sidetracked again.

_Probably Herbology. It's your best subject, after all._ The pale green offered.

_Sirius Black._ The blue sprang in, the only one of the three to actually answer her tacit query. She felt a thrill of fear, but reminded herself that he was only a color of ink on a page; he couldn't get at her from here.

'-a mass murderer who is the only wizard ever to escape Azkaban?'

_WHAT?!_ All four chorused.

She could feel a headache coming on.

* * *

Jamie struggled his way down from Gryffindor Tower towards the Great Hall for breakfast. The remainder of his sleep the previous night had been deep and dreamless, but not especially restful. And considering what the first part of his night had been like, that was small comfort at best. _If I was an_ acknowledged _Slytherin, I could have spent the night_ there _. . . but no . . ._ He sighed. The Headmaster had to know by now . . . if only because Snape would have told him . . . which meant he had a wonderful death announcement to listen to over breakfast. Just bloody wonderful.

"You look beat." Ron's eyes ran over him assessingly. "Is everything all right?"

_What do you think?_ He ignored the sniping, choosing instead to smile at how solicitous his friend could be, despite how drastically they had grown apart over the last month or so. "Not really. I had a hard night."

"Was it . . ." his voice dropped. ". . . the scar?"

Jamie rubbed the aforementioned disfigurement, assenting with a small nod and a sigh. "Wasn't as bad as I would have expected. No real torture, and only one person died." Despite his effort at control, he could feel his voice drop, his face become more drawn, at that last pronouncement.

"Who?" Ron's gaze snapped away to survey the hallway and, as they entered it, the Great Hall, presumably searching to see if he could find the missing face.

"I'll tell you after breakfast if Dumbledore doesn't."

"Harry!" He stopped and turned, motioning Ron to go on without him.

"Cho?" Sure enough, the dark-haired Ravenclaw was approaching him, not his counterpart-who was nowhere in sight.

"I . . . found something out last night that I think you ought to know . . ." She seemed rather antsy.

"After breakfast?" He suggested. "Since we've all been called to eat together for once, it could be something important." Well, he damn well knew it was. But she didn't particularly need to know that.

"All right." She assented, hesitantly. "Survival room?"

"That works. I'll see you then."

* * *

The Great Hall was awash with noise. If he tried, Jamie could pick out about four different conversations just in his immediate vicinity . . . not surprisingly, one focus of all the conversations was just exactly why they were all down here for breakfast at one time.

Up at the Head table, Snape looked exhausted- _probably didn't get even as much sleep as I did. And almost certainly not as peaceful_ -and Dumbledore was tapping his spoon against his goblet in an effort to gain everyone's attention. Finally, everyone had either gotten a clue or been forcibly shushed by his or her neighbors, and the entire hall-including most of the teachers-looked towards their Headmaster for an explanation.

The venerable man's gaze panned over the crowd. "I'm sure you all wish to know why it was you were assembled here like this." He began softly. "At the end of last year, I informed you all that Voldemort had risen again. I'm not sure how many of you-or how many of your parents-believed my statements, but that doesn't make them any less true."

"Last night, tragedy struck Hogwarts once again, much like it did at the end of last year. Last night, Blaise Zabini was murdered by Voldemort." The expected murmurs.

"I don't remember him . . . do you?" Ron was whispering to Hermione, and Harry suppressed the sudden hot burst of anger towards his friends. This scene was hard enough as it was.

"Blaise had that sly cunning characteristic of Slytherin that was responsible for many a shift in hair color or other odd occurrences; an ability to blend into the background that often allowed him to escape unscathed. Unfortunately, he was unable to escape this situation."

"Wasn't he that boy in our Potions class with the reddish-blonde hair?" Hermione frowned, concentrating. "He may have been in my Ancient Runes class, too . . ."

"Oh, right!" Ron perked up. "Now I remember. The one who looked like a girl!"

Jamie resisted the urge to bang his head against the table. Had he really been this oblivious once? He looked over to the Slytherin table to see them all looking pale, but composed. Of course, none of them would cry, as the Hufflepuffs had for Cedric's death.

But what other people might pass off as not caring, Jamie knew was simply pure determination to show weakness in front of other people. There would probably be many wet pillows tonight in Slytherin . . . but everyone knew effective Drying Charms; no one would be forced into a situation where he or she felt shamed.

"Let Blaise's death prove to us that none of us will escape from this war unscathed; that standing together now is perhaps more important than ever. He raised his goblet. "To Blaise Zabini."

"To Blaise." The Slytherins' voices rang out, strong and true; even if they had disliked Blaise, even if they had plans to become Death Eaters themselves, and because of that felt his death worthless, Slytherin stands together. And he stood with them.

_It wasn't supposed to be this way. My House was supposed to be another house, as like and as different from the other Houses as they were from each other. Not this ostracism . . . where did I fail? Is it . . . are people truly so afraid, so contemptuous of those of us who are truthful enough to admit to our ambitions, even if we don't even know exactly what those ambitions are? Where did I fail?_

"To Blaise." Most of Ravenclaw, some scattered Hufflepuffs, and even fewer Gryffindors responded, though he saw mulish looks on many faces. He could just imagine the comparisons this would draw to Cedric's death . . . unfavorable ones, especially from those who hadn't known Blaise; those who thought of Slytherin (as Jamie once had) as the Dark House.

The silence stretched; the tension mounted; none of those still seated rose to their feet. Jamie began tapping his foot-intentionally loudly-just because he could. For once, the odd acoustics of Hogwarts worked in his favor, as the still fairly quiet sound was caught up and echoed from one end of the hall to the other.

He could feel a certain pair of eyes on him and looked up to catch Draco's gaze, briefly amused before he retreated back into the loss that every Slytherin felt.

As he had expected, either the silence or the never-ending tapping finally drove someone to action of a sort. One of the Gryffindors off to his left muttered, and he turned. "Yes? You said something . . ." He searched for a name. She was either a sixth or seventh-year, and not part of the Quidditch team, so he didn't know her very well. What was it again? "Patricia?"

The girl in question sighed loudly. "I just said, I don't know what all the fuss is about. He was just a Slytherin, after all."

Immediate outrage from the entirety of the House in question; Snape had pushed his chair back and looked about ready to come down and do something to the girl personally. Strangle her, perhaps . . . Head and House, he speared them all with an unequivocal glare. _I will deal with this. Stay out of it._ Luckily (for them), they seemed to understand his unspoken command.

"Just another Slytherin, hm? Perhaps." He began laconically. "Tell me, Patricia, what would you do if you came face to face with Voldemort?"

She flinched, but not much. "I'd kill him." She glared, obviously not seeing his point.

"Oh, really? How? Would you" he brought out his wand and flourished it in her direction "tickle him to death, perhaps?" He tapped his chin. "Or, I know! If you just happened to be near a cliff, you could hit him with the Jelly-Legs Curse, and he might be caught off balance enough to fall off, thus saving you the trouble of killing him yourself." Another show of consideration. "You know, with all that black he wears and how skeletal he looked last time I saw him, he could _almost_ pass as a Dementor." Pregnant pause. "You _do_ know the Patronus Charm, don't you?"

She had been growing redder and redder under his onslaught, but that seemed to be the final straw. The famed Gryffindor temper was allowed free reign. "I'd use the Killing Curse on him, you idiot!"

"A _Gryffindor_? Use the Killing Curse?! Do my ears deceive me?!" Jamie affected far greater surprise than he actually felt; let it drop away. "Well, for one thing, if you learned anything from Professor Crouch last year, you should at least have learned that using the Killing Curse takes a great deal more than just knowing the words. I doubt _you_ could even have killed one of Crouch's spiders." He held up a hand, seeing her about to explode again. "Even if, by some stroke of luck, you cast the curse, it might very well not work. After all, he has some of my blood in him now . . . and it's never been proved that I'm not just flat immune to that particular curse."

He popped his neck idly. "So what would you do?"

Her scowl was almost as bad as Professor Snape's . . . on a _good_ day, that is. "Well . . . if nothing else worked . . ." her chin rose ". . . I'd die an honorable and glorious death."

Scattered clapping greeted that announcement, even as Jamie did his best to resist rolling his eyes. _Glorious my ass._ "And a Slytherin? What do you think Zabini did, being 'just another Slytherin, after all'?"

Patricia snorted. "Probably tried to run, and when that didn't work, went down on his knees to plead for his pitiful little life." She looked like she dearly wished there was a place to spit.

_Where did I go wrong?_ "Well, there's where you made your mistake then." He announced with assumed perkiness. "Because, you see, Blaise was just a bit _too_ Gryffindor about dying for my peace of mind. Had he acted stereotypically Slytherin, he'd probably be sitting here with us, right now." His gaze panned the hall. "This particular Slytherin's last words were 'I hate you, Voldemort, and all you stand for. I would rather die than serve you.' "

"Despite all your talk, I rather doubt you'd have the courage to do the same. And until you know you do-until you _have_ -I would appreciate your not deriding someone, whatever his House, for being brave enough to refuse to compromise his beliefs . . . for being courageous enough to die for those beliefs."

He placed his goblet back down on the table. And left.

* * *

He didn't make it far; right outside the Great Hall he had to stop and lean against the wall, trying to quell the shaking-caused by a combination of his (usually better-hidden) nervousness at public speaking and the still near-murderous rage that had overtaken him at that girl's comment. He knew she probably hadn't meant as much by it as he had construed; Gryffindors hated and derided Slytherins, Slytherins hated or were contemptuous of and took every chance to belittle Gryffindors. It was the way the world worked.

He rubbed a hand across his face, obscurely pleased at no longer having to try to avoid the unwieldy pair of glasses that had been a part of his life for so long. Which reminded him . . . he never had figured out why his vision had so suddenly fixed itself. Unless . . .

_'there may be certain . . . changes . . . that happen right away. Don't worry, it's nothing drastic-not enough for most people to even notice.'_ The bat had told him . . . why had he never made the connection before now? It was so obvious! _Still . . . I disagree with his definitions . . . 'nothing drastic' indeed._

But how would his bat side _or_ his dragon side affect his _sight_? After all, (if he remembered his third grade science correctly) bats didn't even _use_ their eyes to 'see'. They used some sort of . . . he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to recall the ancient memory . . . echolocation? Making weird noises that bounced off objects, which were reconstructed by the ears into a sort of radar-like sight.

Of course! That even explained why he had been so dizzy in Herbology that one day-why his sight had returned to its previous state after he put on the earmuffs. Experimentally, he placed his hands over his ears. He was prepared for the dizziness this time, riding it through with much less trouble; when he reopened his eyes, sure enough, everything was fuzzy again.

. . . But not quite as fuzzy as he remembered it being. So his sight was gradually improving on its own, too? He shook his head, baffled, then became aware of a dark, human-shaped blob off to his left that had probably been trying to capture his attention for quite some time. Abashed, he lowered his hands, leaned against the wall to counteract the dizziness (even slighter this time), and breathed a small sigh of relief as his sight gradually refocused, revealing the dark shape to be Cho.

There was a hint of something in her eyes . . . pity? No, sympathy came closer, he finally decided. He cocked his head slightly, acknowledging her and waiting for her to speak.

"It was a vision, wasn't it?" She asked. He nodded. "I had figured as much. You know, there are a couple of people sitting in there trying to convince people that you know what happened because you were there-evidently, they think you're the Dark Lord's new right-hand man."

Jamie rolled his eyes and, levering himself away from the wall, began walking in the general direction of the Survival room. After a moment, Cho followed. "I'm not surprised . . . it's not that much less provocation than they had in second year, after all."

"Second year? What happened . . ." Her expression cleared. "Oh, right. _Your_ second year." She looked down at her feet. "Would you hate me very much if I admitted that . . . for a time . . . I actually believed the rumors?"

A snort. "Practically the only people who _didn't_ believe the rumors were Ron and Hermione. They knew me. You didn't, other than 'that skinny black-haired Gryffindor Seeker'. Besides, looking back, I actually think the situation turned out one of the better ways it could have. I mean, would it really have done anyone any good if people had refused to listen to 'evidence' and declared I could do no wrong simply because I was the 'Boy-Who-Lived'? What if I really _had_ gone bad?"

Cho looked unconvinced. "Maybe . . . I still shouldn't have, though. I mean, there was no _proof_. We Ravenclaws live for proof. I should have known better."

Jamie laughed outright. "There may have been no outright proof, but people have been convicted on a lot less circumstantial evidence than there was against me." He shook his head. "But we're off on a pretty large tangent now, aren't we? What was it that you wanted to talk to me about before breakfast?"

"Oh." She looked startled. "That's right. Listen . . . it wasn't really all that important. I mean, yeah, it's probably something you ought to know at some point, but . . . it's also kinda trivial. I feel silly bringing this up just after someone _died_ . . ."

He shook his head. "I know this sounds callous, but . . . he's not going to be the last. Cedric was the first, he's the second . . . sooner or later there will be another. And we'll never be able to do anything useful, much less defeat Voldemort, if we let every death crush us completely." Cho, he noticed, still looked unconvinced. He sighed, then admitted quietly, "I'll probably cry myself to sleep tonight-or come down with insomnia and spend a restless night trying to figure out why I'm not crying yet. But during the day, there are things to be done. Besides mourning."

"Like telling off upstart Gryffindors?" A smile was beginning to form again on Cho's face. "Oh, nothing against your House, Harry . . . but I _thoroughly_ enjoyed watching you put Patricia Horne down. Especially since I'll be able to use it against her mercilessly in Herbology."

"Careful, Cho. You're beginning to sound almost Slytherin." Jamie, in response to his friend's mood, had also begun to lighten up. "You're supposed to be too concerned with studying to pay attention to little things like petty vindictiveness, remember?"

"Oh, shut up, you." The dark-haired girl swung in his general direction-missing, of course, but he ducked in an exaggerated fashion anyway.

". . . And here we've gotten sidetracked again. Cedric." He absentmindedly let them both into the room. "So spill. I could use something to distract me at this point."

"Does this look familiar to you?" She pulled out a small leather-bound journal. "Have you ever looked in the back?"

He nodded slowly, puzzled after the first thrill of adrenaline at seeing someone _not_ himself, Draco, or Parvati in control of the book subsided. "All the rest of the pages are blank."

Her lips twisted. "Sort of. If you leave it open long enough, a title, _The Marauders' FAQ_ , appears. And then these four . . . presences start talking to you." She leaned forward. "Did you know that, when they were in school, your father was involved with Professor Lupin and . . ." her voice lowered even further ". . . _Black_."

"As a matter of fact, I did." He nodded. "Although it came as just as great a surprise to me. And it is nice to have the information confirmed by the source, so to speak."

"But . . . how . . . _why_ would your father even _associate_ with that . . . that Death Eater! And how can you be so calm about it? He's the reason your parents are dead!" She suddenly closed her mouth. "Oh no . . . you _did_ know that before, didn't you?"

"Found out in my third year." He eyed the book in her hands. "Wait a . . . you didn't tell _them_ that, did you?" She nodded. "Crud. Oh, give it here." He dug through his bag for quill and ink. "The first blank page, right?" Another nod.

'Padfoot?' He wrote on the blank page.

_He's sulking._ Pale green ink informed him. "I never did find out the green ink's name." Cho commented. "Blue is _Black_ , gold is Professor Lupin, and red is your father."

'Well, could you get him out of it, Wormtail? I need to speak to him.'

_What do you want?_ Dark blue ink flowed slowly, almost reluctantly, onto the page.

'Ignore what Cho told you last night. You were accused of murder, and sentenced to life in Azkaban, but you were innocent.'

"What?!" The Ravenclaw exclaimed.

"Just what I said. He was framed. My parents switched their Secret Keeper to Peter Pettigrew-the fourth Marauder, known as Wormtail-at the last minute, telling no one, not even Dumbledore. But Wormtail betrayed them. And then he faked his own death, blowing up the street behind him so that Sirius would be accused of all those Muggles' murders as well as his own."

_How do I know you're not lying now? Who are you?_

'I'm Harry Potter. I suppose you'd be calling me Prongs, Jr. if my father were still alive . . . and you weren't constantly on the run. You _are_ still my godfather.'

_I suppose that's better than nothing. I still can't believe that Prongs threw us over for Lily_ . . .

_I still can't believe I had the gall._ The red inserted. _I mean, being Gryffindor and brave is one thing. Stealing that crazy slimeball's girlfriend, in addition to being foul play, is just plain suicide._

'Wait a second. My mother was _Snape's_ girlfriend?'

"That was the other part of what I was going to tell you." Cho said quietly. "You just got involved in the conversation before I had the chance to."

_. . . Yeah. Where have you_ been _? It's, like, only the scandal of the_ century _._

'Mm. Methinks it was covered up pretty well, considering _I_ was told-or certainly given to understand-that my parents were madly in love with each other.'

_Madly in love, I'll grant . . ._ Red.

_Aw, Prongsie, you say the sweetest things._ Blue and gold . . . Jamie could almost _hear_ the purr. He shut the book quickly. I mean, knowing his father had been in a relationship with two of his best friends is one thing. Having it shoved in his face . . . made him realized that he was not quite as well-adjusted to the idea than he'd thought.

And his mum and _Snape_ . . . he didn't know whether to start laughing at himself or go bang his head against the wall. All this time, the woman he had been resenting-pretty virulently, too-for hurting Snape had been _his mother_. Talk about irony . . .

He paused. There was . . . something . . . tickling the back of his mind. Some scrap of . . . intuition, he supposed, that indicated that there was more to this discovery than just laughing at the irony. What was he missing? What had he forgotten?

Tentatively, aware of Cho's eyes on him, he thought back to the first time Snape had mentioned his wife-who he had married right out of school; that had been it, right after his comment about Fred and Angelina. Knowing that Snape and his mother had been together during school, who else could his wife have been? Now, what had the annoying man _said_?

_". . . her remarrying a few days later, giving her new husband a child a little more than nine months after that . . ."_

Of course. Why hadn't he seen it before? There had been so many clues: Voldemort's reference to Snape's "Mudblood wife" who was dead only the last in a long line, many of which were slips by the man himself. That in itself should have clued him in on the connection between his mother and his Potions professor.

_A little over nine months later . . ._ Now that brought up even _more_ interesting speculation. "Cho? Do you have a mirror?"

"Yes . . ." She dug into her bag, eventually pulling out a small Muggle compact that she handed to Jamie. He looked at himself, truly _looked_ , for the first time in quite a while. How could he have missed this, too? Maybe it had been his straight and normal-sized nose that had misled him-certainly nothing like the _beak_ that protruded from Snape's face, or the face which was certainly not vintage Snape . . . but even less was it Potter-like.

Perhaps it was because he looked a great deal more like Aurelius Snape-who had been an acquaintance more than a friend, and not even a very close one-than Aurelius' many-times-great grandson. Or perhaps it was the sheer number of times Draco had remarked on his resemblance to the Slytherin Head of House, getting him into the habit of dismissing it as a mixture of common features inherited from that one connection between the Potter and Snape lines many years back and just Draco being himself, and doing what he did best: annoy Jamie.

He congratulated himself on the calm with which he was taking what ought to, by all rights, be an event of earthshaking magnitude. Maybe it was because this was just another event in a long line of changes and shocks . . . maybe his 'surprised' module had simply worn out. Or broken down completely. _But then . . . no matter how much sense it makes . . . I don't know for_ certain _that what I've deduced is the truth_.

But then, as Salazar his father had acted much in the same manner as Tom Riddle Sr.-except he had accused his wife of being a witch; she had barely escaped with either her life or the life of her unborn child. Was it any wonder that Salazar had wanted to restrict Muggle-born children at Hogwarts, knowing firsthand what the worst of Muggles could do? Still, the point was, neither as Jamie/Harry nor as Salazar had he had much of a father-figure, much less the real thing, to speak of. So was it any wonder that the prospect of having one at last didn't have quite as great an impact as he would have expected?

Especially since Snape should have figured it out. Certainly he'd heard of overdue babies before? And he had probably been a week or two overdue at the most. Postulating that Snape _had_ figured the situation, he couldn't really see the Potions Master keeping it a secret from him. Before this year, perhaps-the loathing had been mutual; he was sure of that. But now . . . now, he had been beginning to think of the older man as some odd form of a friend, and he liked to think that Snape had returned the favour. There would be no real reason anymore to hide this information-which led to the startling conclusion that Snape had _not_ known.

Which led to the possibility that he was only hallucinating. He could see it now, as clearly as if it were a newspaper headline: . . . come to think of it, it had been. If such a paltry thing as a little pain in his scar was enough to cause him to hallucinate (as, certainly, quite a _large_ number of people had seemed to believe, the previous year), then he thought the deaths of Cedric and Blaise, having some odd female twin from another universe popping in to say hello, becoming a dual Animagus, and being initiated into the House that he had been violently opposed to before this year was _definitely_ enough to drive him off the deep end.

He grinned, and became aware that Cho had evidently had enough of looking at him oddly, and now had something approaching worry on her face. "I was just thinking about a certain reporter . . ."

_Well, you know, Potter . . . or whatever your name is . . . there's only one way to find out. And you_ aren't _going to be chicken, now are you?_ Giving himself pep talks, he noted, was definitely not one of his strong points. "Cho, could you go find Draco for me? Tell him to get Professor Snape and meet me in the Library."

"You're not going to do anything to him, are you? I mean, he _is_ a professor, even if he's not a very fair one . . . and just because he used to be in love with your mother, I'm sure he didn't _hurt_ her or anything . . ."

"Calm down, Cho!" Jamie held his hands up in surrender. "I promise, I'm _not_ going to punch Professor Snape's lights out. Besides, even if I _was_ contemplating a move that criminally stupid, do you _really_ think I'd be utterly moronic enough to try to do it in the _Library_?"

"Point." She relaxed. "All right. You _will_ tell me what this is about eventually, won't you?"

"I will."

* * *

"How much alike are we?"

Lucia jumped nearly a foot in the air and only barely stifled a shriek at the unexpected voice. "Jamie! What are you doing here?"

He shrugged. "Last time I looked, I _was_ still in Gryffindor." He deliberately panned the Gryffindor common room with his gaze, though there was a quirky smile on his face that reminded her uncomfortably of how Draco- _her_ Draco-had looked when laughing at a private joke no one else knew, much less understood. "So? How much alike are we?"

"I'm having a hard time thinking of a person I am _less_ like." She returned, slightly sharply. "Why? Does that question have any particular point?"

He shrugged lightly. "There's . . . I just happened across some rather interesting information that I was about to go see if I could conclusively confirm or deny. If you think you're genetically of the same parentage as me, you might want to come with me. But if you're going to be stubborn and Gryffindor about it, I promise I won't miss your presence all that much." His temper seemed rather shorter than usual. "So? _Are_ you coming?"

_'Genetically of the same parentage'? What in the world? I'm the daughter of James and Lily Potter, the same as he is._ She rolled her eyes. _Oh, well. If I don't go with him, my curiosity will probably kill me. I'm sure he wouldn't see fit to tell me the results_ after _he figured whatever it is out._ "Sure."

At last, a smile graced his face. "Good. It will be nice to have you there. We . . . don't talk the way we used to. Or do anything together, really."

"We're just too different." Lucia acknowledged with a sigh. "We rub each other the wrong way even worse than Hermione and Ron-at least _they_ seem to have worked out their problems fairly well."

He nodded. "Yeah. It was hard, watching them argue like that. Kinda makes me sympathize with anyone who was caught in the middle of one of _our_ arguments."

She winced. "Come to think of it . . . but of course, usually by the time we _are_ arguing, I'm so mad at you that I'm in no condition to be thinking about the well-being of anyone else's eardrums."

"That's a . . . unique way of putting it. But I agree-I'm usually pretty focused on the cause of my problems, that is, you."

"Oh, _that's_ a boost to my self-esteem." But she was laughing; for some reason, they were both in a laid-back-or distracted-enough mood that it seemed a major argument had been avoided. This time around. "So, where is it that we are going to find this mysterious information of yours?"

A surprised look that she was sure was mostly faked. "The Library, of course."

"I knew it! You're turning into Hermione on me!"

"Why you . . ."

* * *

"Interesting group you have assembled here, Potter."

"I try my best, Malfoy." Jamie smiled sweetly at his bonded. "If you really _want_ to, you can leave now." Draco gave him a 'Yeah, Right' Look so strong even a three-year-old could have interpreted it. "That's what I thought. Let's go."

He led the way-now that he knew it-back to the genealogical niche of the library and, once there, pulled down one of the middle 'S' volumes.

"Er . . . 'Potter' starts with a 'P', you know."

"Yes dear. Shut up. If you're really that bored, why don't you look yourself up? I'm still interested in finding out just exactly how 'pure' your blood is."

Lucia snickered. "Still . . . what _are_ you looking up, Jamie?"

"And why am I even here?" Snape sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I do have papers to grade . . . I swear, Potter, if this is a hoax of some kind . . ."

"You'll string me up by my toenails and let Filch polish up on his torturing skills . . . with Draco sitting in the crowd taking notes." Jamie answered absently, flipping a page. "No, Professor, this is not a hoax. Call it more . . . I'm investigating a hunch of mine, and I thought the three of you would be interested."

He finally stopped, laying the book on the table. "Well, well. Looks like I was right after all." He pointed near the bottom of a page marked _Snape_ , to three entries in particular: _Severus Snape_ , connected by a straight horizontal line to _Lily Evans (div.) (dec.)_ , and from the centre of that line down to a third: _Harry Potter_.

With a whimsical smile, Jamie turned to his Potions professor. To his father. It was the first time he had allowed himself to think the tag outright, and it sounded rather better than he had expected it to, despite the state of unnatural calm he still seemed to be in. "Congratulations, Professor. It's a boy." His eyes met Lucia's, and he cocked his head. "And a girl, too, I suspect."

A muffled thump. He turned back to a sight he certainly had never expected.

Professor Snape had fainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 22 April 2003


	14. Transformation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's ... kind of fun, reading all the angst I had about prepping for college from the perspective of someone who's now been out of it for more than a decade. :D 
> 
> (Also, I don't know what " 'challenge" is supposed to be, unless ff.net's formatting nonsense messed up even worse than usual and wiped out the entire disclaimer aside from that one word. Oh well. XD)
> 
> ==
> 
> *sighs* I grovel at your feet in apology for how long this chapter has taken me. For one reason or another, I've been pretty much a big ball of stress and not-much-free-time since around the time the APs started (*thinks* early May?). I actually had to study for my APs this year; there were actually decently hard finals that I had to study for, several of my teachers decided that they'd give me one last project to remember them by . . .
> 
> And then I had to do housing information and physicals and crap for college . . . and then there was graduation . . . and all through this, when I had any spare time at all, I generally wasted it on my primary stress-reliever (reading fanfiction) instead of my secondary one (writing it).
> 
> *shakes head* Anyway. That's all over with now, so hopefully I can get back to my usual schedule. For those of you who have asked: I try to get a chapter of this story out about once every three weeks, though you can see how well that sometimes works out . . . *grimaces*
> 
> And for those of you who worried, no, I have not yet ascended to the Great Fanfiction Library in the Sky. ^^;; Sorry again for staying away so long.
> 
> *pauses* Have I forgotten anything?
> 
> Oh yeah. 'challenge.
> 
> *deep breath* Please enjoy the chapter. Yes, to make up for its lateness, it is (literally) twice as long as usual. (*walks away muttering* Sheez, I write entirely too bloody much . . .)
> 
> And did I mention that this is where the interesting part of the story starts? *grins insanely* I'm going to have so much fun . . .

"I thought you said you didn't possess any other un-Potter-like traits." Draco said, tone accusatory.

"No, I just said I didn't _know_ of any others." Jamie shot back, looking innocent. He peered around. "Did Madam Pince notice? Probably not, considering that otherwise, she'd probably be over here giving us an earful already."

Draco looked out of the alcove in which the genealogy shelves were set, then strolled back over to the group. "Nope. She's currently being mobbed by quite a large group of first-years, so even if she did hear, it'll probably take her a while in getting back over here."

"Good." He turned his attention to his double. "Lucia?" The girl was still staring at the book. He waved his hand in front of her face. "If you're going to faint too, you might as well get it over with, while Madam Pince is still distracted."

"I'm not going to faint." She sounded vaguely annoyed, but when she raised her head, her eyes were confused. "What does this mean to me? . . . Our worlds are different in other ways, too, after all . . ."

"At this point-until you can return home and verify the information for yourself-I think it means either as much or as little as you _want_ it to." Jamie shrugged. "If you want my input, it is my considered opinion that you look at least as much like a Snape as I do, so you're probably your Snape's daughter, even if the circumstances are different."

"Point." Lucia agreed, beginning to bite at a nail. "Still . . ." She looked towards the man still prone on the floor. "I've spent fourteen years thinking of Lucius Malfoy as my father, a little over four knowing it was James Potter instead . . . yet another change may take me a little time to adjust to."

"Mm. I think my ability to feel surprise broke a long time ago." Jamie voiced his earlier thought. "So I can't really sympathize all that well . . . why don't you go on back to Gryffindor? They'll probably be missing you. Draco and I will stay here to hold the fort until he wakes up."

She hesitated. ". . . All right." Turned, then turned back. "Make sure he's all right, okay? Even if I'm not ready to accept that he may be my father, he _has_ been like a godfather to me for as long as I can remember."

Jamie nodded. "Don't worry. We've got it under control."

Her eyes focused through Draco. "Why is _he_ here?"

Though it was an abrupt about-face from the previous topic of conversation-and the previous use of pronouns-there was little doubt as to who she was referring to. Jamie lifted his head proudly. "Draco and I are bonded."

"Oh."

* * *

". . . And then Beth said 'That may be bad, but Lockhart was far worse'."

"Fine for her to say. She didn't even have detention with him, I bet. _Four bloody hours_ of answering _fan mail_. Interspersed with comments about how he was sure I could understand what a 'burden' fame could be . . . so isn't it great that it had landed on such _capable_ shoulders?" Pause. "His. Not necessarily mine."

The transition into consciousness was quick, but not without pain. Keeping his eyes closed and every muscle still relaxed, Snape sharpened his ears towards the conversation as he tried to recall what had sent him into this state.

"I'm not sure I know Beth . . . she's a seventh-year, right?"

"Beth Lestrange, yes. She's medium-tall, dirty-blondish hair and dark brown eyes. One of the quietest of us, but when she talks, _everyone_ listens. And she rarely criticizes anyone . . . which is part of what made the whole Lockhart comment especially delicious." A pause. " _Fan mail_?"

The two voices were Harry-the native one-and Draco, but that still didn't give him much information about where he was . . . though it did prompt certain memories. _Good God . . . the 'Boy-Who-Lived' is_ my _son?_ was his first, rather incoherent thought. He never would have suspected.

_Actually,_ this _year he's been acting rather more like me. Getting himself made_ Slytherin _, for crying out loud . . . not to mention his increased interest in Potions and in academia in general. But last year and the years before . . ._ pure _Potter. So, how?_

"Lestrange . . . the name sounds familiar . . ." There was a thoughtful frown in his voice. Eyes still closed, Snape wrestled with his feelings. _I . . . I never would have believed it, but I_ want _him as a son. Even though I doubt he'll want_ me _as a father. Goodness knows I've never had any practice at it . . ._ Doubt crept in. _We've actually been getting along, more or less, this year. He's certainly the only person I've ever talked to, even elliptically, about Lily (though I still claim either temporary insanity or illegal use of Veritaserum) . . . but. Is it enough to make up for our-most decidedly mutual-antipathy from before?_

Sound of fist hitting hand. "That's right! They're Death Eaters. Voldemort mentioned them-said they're locked up Azkaban. Called them some of the most loyal of his bunch, for not trying to weasel out of their punishment."

"So _that's_ why." Draco sounded enlightened. "She grew up in an orphanage-a Muggle one, but evidently a very good one. Since it's obvious that she's from a magical family-the Sorting Hat mentioned her parents, though it refused to actually say anything of use-and no one else _ever_ mentions her parents-I had always wondered . . . but of course, they'd want her to have good opinions of Muggles, so she wouldn't follow in her parents' footsteps."

His voice took on a frowning tone lacking the thoughtful aspect of Jamie's earlier. "I don't think _she_ knows, though . . ."

"Then we need to tell her. She deserves to know the truth." Jamie stated simply, then made a disgusted noise. "Maybe if Dumbledore had known I was a Snape, I would have gotten similarly preferential treatment. Or at least checked up on, every now and then."

Snape made a mental note to have a _talk_ with the Headmaster. And opened his eyes. Polished wood ceiling, _very_ high above him. Still the library, then. Although why he had been crammed into this rather uncomfortable little niche . . . he squeezed himself back out, standing and brushing (mostly) imaginary dust from his sleeves.

"Severus, you're awake!" Meet Draco Malfoy, Master of the Obvious.

"I think he realizes that." Jamie said in a sardonic tone, much like his own, as their eyes met, father to son, for the first time. He stood as well. "Shall we continue this somewhere more private? Say, the Survival room? I'll go on ahead." A smirk. "It would just _destroy_ my reputation to be seen with 'slimy Slytherins' such as yourself." He buffed his fingertips on the front of his robes.

"Oh, like you're one to talk about slime, Mr. 'I-look-like-I-haven't-washed-my-hair-in-weeks'." Draco quipped.

The smirk disappeared for a brief moment, being replaced by an uncertain sort of expression, before the confident show returned as he flipped his ponytail back over his shoulder, a mischievous smile playing over his lips. "Well, now I know where I get it from."

With a wink in Snape's direction, he turned and meandered away from the alcove as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Draco waited a minute or so, then turned to his godfather. "All right, shall we go, Professor 'I-look-like-I-haven't-washed-my-hair-in-weeks'?"

"Not funny, Mr. Malfoy." Now, if only his lips weren't twitching. Purely a small muscle spasm, of course.

* * *

"What are your intentions toward my son?"

Draco stifled a laugh, turning it into a hasty cough. When he answered, his voice was serious, though he couldn't keep his lips from twitching. "Entirely platonic, I assure you. Sheez, the number of people who think we have something going on, I _swear_ . . ."

"I rather don't think that's what Professor Snape has in mind." Jamie noted from a bit further away (though his lips were also twitching), perched on a desk. He began to swing his legs, going on in a deceptively offhanded voice, "I think he meant something more along the lines of 'Are you planning on kidnapping him and turning him over to Voldemort, like the good little Malfoy-spawn you are?' "

" _Harry . . ._ " The two native Slytherins growled as one.

Swing, swing. "Well? Wasn't it?"

Draco rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to his professor. "Why should I tell you anything? _If_ I have turned to the Light side, _you're_ still a Death Eater. And whether or not you're my godfather, that means that I can't trust you."

"You know, you just as good as admitted that you _have_ turned."

"Shut up, Snape-spawn."

"So I guess it's a good thing for you that he _is_ a spy. Traitor. Whatever."

"Shut up, Harry."

Jamie rolled his eyes, throwing his arms up into the air. "I give up. You two are acting too much like Gryffindors right now. _You're both on the same side_. Get over yourselves already."

"And Professor Snape? I appreciate the gesture, don't get me wrong, but I don't really need to be protected-especially not from _Draco_ , of all people. I've spent over fourteen years" _you'd be surprised to know_ how _much over_ "without a father figure's protection; I think I can live without it now."

"I . . ." Snape looked like he was considering being angry, then abruptly deflated. ". . . I know. I'm not very good at this 'father' business, you know?"

Jamie's annoyance dissipated completely. It was obvious that he _was_ trying, even if he wasn't necessarily doing a very good job. Or perhaps he was just doing _too_ good a job-the number of people his age he had heard complaining about their parents, after all . . .

"Hey, you're alive and you care. That puts you one up on any _other_ father-figure I've had so far." He shrugged. "Besides . . . what makes you think I'm any better at being a son?"

"I'm still willing to make a try, anyway . . . if you don't mind."

"I can think of few things I'd like more." There was disturbing moisture gathering at the corners of Snape's eyes, though he certainly couldn't come up with a reason why.

"Like Voldemort's head on a platter?"

"Mm . . . Appealing. Very appealing. But I think it would be a bit messy."

"And Harry isn't?" Draco ducked the swing directed towards him. "I know, I know. 'Shut up, Malfoy-spawn.' "

The faces under two nearly identical mops of greasy black hair grinned at him. "Precisely."

* * *

"So when am I going to get to meet 'Harry Snape'?" Draco was the one perched on a desk, legs swinging, this time around. "You could be resorted, and then you'd be in Slytherin in the eyes of the world, too, instead of this sneaking-around-secretive business."

Jamie's eyes went unfocused. "You have no idea how appealing that idea is to me . . ." He hummed. "Unfortunately, at least until Voldemort is permanently defeated, 'Harry Snape' does not- _can_ not-exist."

"What? Why not? You're not pulling an Evans and refusing to face reality, are you?"

Jamie snickered at the description. "No, Draco, I'm not 'pulling a Lucia'. But since this blockhead" he jerked a thumb in the direction of his father "is determined to continue spying, I refuse to do anything that might destroy his cover. Voldemort knows he doesn't have a son, so if I suddenly materialize, he'll be more suspicious than he was already-not a good thing-and accuse Professor Snape of lying- _definitely_ not a good thing."

"Besides, there's only one person I _could_ be the son of, due to an oddity of the Snape line-which means I could only be one person, the one people know as 'Harry Potter'. So as proof of his loyalty, he'd be forced to bring me in, though I don't _think_ Voldemort would make him dispose of me himself. Poor Voldie's a little obsessed with killing me himself to be willing to delegate the responsibility."

"And finally, even if, by some huge stretch, Voldemort _didn't_ figure out that I-that Harry Snape and Harry Potter-were the same person, he has already made his feelings abundantly clear on the subject: 'Better no heir than a tainted-in other words, part Muggle-born-one', I believe he said." He turned his head to look at Snape, silently requesting verification.

The Potions Master nodded. "Much as I hate to admit it, Harry is entirely correct. Telling the truth, at this point, is just too dangerous for everyone." A disturbed look came over his face. ". . . How much _did_ you see, last night?"

"All of it, I think." Snape flinched, as if struck. "Unfortunately, I think it was probably pointless, as-if I remember and have conjectured correctly-he _already knows_. But, not knowing that . . . as you couldn't have, which is _my_ fault for forgetting to tell anyone . . . you did what you could. And I don't blame you for it."

His eyes were entirely green, even the black rim having temporarily been driven away. "I don't blame you, and I sincerely doubt Blaise would have, either."

Draco sighed quietly. _Just when I_ finally _begin to think I've got a handle on everything that's going on . . ._

* * *

Jamie was not terribly surprised when Cho cornered him in the hall after classes the next morning-though he hadn't realized that she had learned his schedule that well. He went relatively willingly with her as she dragged him through the hall in the direction of-where else?-the Survival room.

"So . . . Professor Snape didn't look _too_ beat up, I noticed . . ." She hinted.

Jamie laughed. "Nah . . . I made sure not to bruise him anywhere it would show."

Cho eyed him, waiting entirely too long before finally coming to the decision that he was joking. "Ha, ha." She stated dryly. A pause. Impatiently, "Well?"

"Tell me, Cho, who do I look like?"

She seemed to be giving careful consideration to this question. "Eh . . . I believe you look like Harry Potter, to me."

He resisted the urge to smack his forehead. _Funny, Cho._ Ah, well, it seemed like he'd have to hint a little more obviously before he broke down and just flat told her. Gathering himself up _(who invented malnutrition, anyway? Whoever linked it to height should be shot . . .)_ , he stuck his best sneer on his face and, in a disdainful voice, said "A point from Ravenclaw for your cheek, Miss Chang."

The obtuse girl started clapping. "Bravo, Harry! Truly, a masterful performance-that was Snape to the life! Why, you even almost _looked_ . . . like . . . him . . ." Ah. The light had finally dawned. "You look like Snape." It was not a question.

"So I do." Jamie noted, leaning-well, really _lounging_ -against the wall. "Odd, no?"

She walked up, reached over his shoulder, and (before he realized what she was planning on doing) yanked his ponytail, bringing them nose to nose. "Cut the crap, Potter. Why?"

_Remind me never to get her_ seriously _mad at me._ "That's Snape, though I'd appreciate it if you didn't go around telling everyone."

Her grip loosened as her eyes widened, and with a toss of his head he freed his hair entirely. "Really? You're _his_ son?!"

Jamie smirked. "Don't you just love the universe's sense of dramatic irony?"

* * *

Draco was so close to solving the _last_ problem in his Arithmancy homework set, he could _taste_ it. Then, just as the inspiration arrived, it equally quickly departed as a smallish, ordinary-looking brown owl flew in through his window and deposited itself belligerently on his desk. Right in the middle of his homework papers-the ink on some of which, he might add, was still not quite dry.

"Hullo, Aurora." He sighed, resisting the urge to begin massaging his forehead. He could feel a headache coming on. He carefully untied the message. "Why don't you go on back up to the owlery and rest a bit. You know I don't usually need you to send answers, but just in case . . ."

She fluffed up her fingers, hooted softly, and flew back out, as he unfolded the single piece of paper with hands that-he was displeased to note-shook slightly despite all his efforts.

_7:00. Joe's. Don't be late. ~L._

_Joe's . . . a relatively neutral meeting place. So he's inclined to cut me some slack . . . either that or he feels his position is so strong that he can_ afford _to give me some slight advantage._ Draco couldn't quite decide whether this was a good thing or a bad one. After all, he had a few hidden advantages of his own, so he would be in a better position than his father expected . . . but he had no idea by how much.

The piece of paper would, of course, be a time-activated portkey; at least Draco couldn't see any reason why his father would depart from the established way of doing things at this point in the game. Especially since it had always worked quite well before. He carefully folded it back up and placed it in a very prominent position on top of a stack of books, where he'd be unlikely to absentmindedly forget it.

As if he could . . .

On second thought, that headache he had felt coming on was already here. Looking at the clock, he noted that he had a couple of hours left. Perfect: if there was one thing that his father had taught him that had stuck, it was that clothing _did_ manner in some circumstances, and the way you dress could provide a certain advantage even if the other person knows what you are doing. And against his father he'd definitely need every advantage he could get.

* * *

This was the first time he had seen his father through Lucifer's eyes as well as his own; it was amazing what a difference it made. His father looked tired, though he was doing a good job of hiding it. Worn out. It was . . . even with his additional sense of experience (he knew he had had it, even if he no longer remembered the exact experiences), it was scary to finally realize that his father was _not_ some sort of immortal demigod; that he was just as human as anyone else. "Father."

"Son." The silver-haired man waved to the seat across from him. "Please, sit."

With a lithe grace that had been tirelessly taught, Draco flowed into the seat and picked up his menu. "I do not have permission to be other than at Hogwarts, you understand, so this meeting should be short. Before I am missed." Hopefully, before Harry came looking for him.

"A year ago, you would have said that as if it were a good thing . . . or, more likely, not considered it at all." An elegant raised eyebrow. "Three months ago, even. You have indeed changed."

Draco laughed softly. _You have_ no _idea how much, Father._ "Indeed." He looked up. "The broiled salmon, I think, and a glass of water."

"The same." Lucius ordered, shortly.

When his water was brought back to him, he nodded slightly, said "Thank you", and sipped.

The eyebrow had lowered, but his father's eyes had only grown more piercing. "Indeed." He echoed softly. "I have received . . . news. News which I wish to discuss with you."

_He's heard about the bonding!_ Even as his stomach tightened with sudden fear, Draco forced his face to remain calm as he sipped again, schooling his expression to one of pleasant patience.

"Our Lord has informed me of a very . . . disturbing rumour he heard from one of your fellow classmates. It seems that you have been bonded to the Potter boy . . .?" Though it was a statement, the way he trailed off made it a rather delicate question.

If he was going to break with his father, better it be done now. " _Your_ Lord, father. Yes, your 'rumour' is indeed true." He lifted his chin, looked his father straight in the eyes, and congratulated himself for not flinching.

"So." The word was drawn out into a long hiss. "I had thought, upon hearing that Potter had become a Slytherin, that you had been intelligent and crafty enough to pretend to set aside your long feud and draw him over to our-" a deliberate pause "-excuse me, _my_ side. But it seems that he has turned you instead." The disappointment in his eyes was real, and it hit Draco like a blow to the gut. What better proof that, despite everything that had come between the two, he still genuinely loved his father? "I never thought to see my heir become one of Dumbledore's lapdogs."

"I may not follow you anymore, Father, but until you disinherit me, I am still a Malfoy. And a Malfoy is no one's lapdog. I am on no one's 'side' but my own . . . and Harry's." A thought. "And, I suppose, the side of 'Good', whatever that means. I think it's more or less a null value, myself."

"I see." The disappointment had faded to a vague sadness. "You know what that means: now you will be targeted as much as, if not more so, than Potter, for the pain your death or torture would cause him. And however much I argue, I will most likely be one of the ones doing the targeting."

And there it was, the ultimatum. His last chance to back down, convince his father that he had been kidding and the informant had been lying. _No._ "And you ought to know what it means as well, Father: I will do my best not to kill you, out of some sense of filial respect, I suppose. But if it comes down to it, I _will_ choose Harry over you; I am willing to defend him with my life if necessary, as I know he would be willing to defend me with his. Perhaps I shouldn't presume, but . . . don't cross me. You might be surprised at the result." The long knife resting, invisible, against his back pulsed briefly in time with his heartbeat.

Somehow, in the charged atmosphere that was causing waiters and other patrons alike to give their table a wide berth, all the food had been eaten. As one, the two of them stood, and in a move that was even more unexpected to Lucius than it had been to himself, Draco grabbed his father in a fierce hug.

Theirs had never been a terribly tactile family; nearly all the hugs he had received when he was young had been from his mother, and even those had gradually tapered off as he grew. But . . . just this once . . . he felt justified in indulging in this display of weakness.

His father's eyes were confused. "Why?"

Why had he? It was a hard question, until he realized that he already knew the answer. "Because . . . this probably will be the last chance I have. The moment we walk out the door, we'll be enemies, sworn to kill each other."

Tentatively, his father began to return the hug-which brought Draco to the abrupt realization that perhaps his father was no better at this sort of thing than he. "I suppose I can accept that." Lucius said softly. "I will regret killing you more than any other, I think."

"You may not be following the path I chose for you, and for that I cannot pretend to be anything but disappointed. But you have shown me that you can forge your own path with the honor of a Malfoy. I am proud of you."

"Now that we've determined to kill each other, I suppose I shouldn't admit how good that makes me feel." Draco smirked, reluctantly releasing his father. "But then, since when have we Malfoys ever acted normal?"

"Too true, my son." An identical smirk on a nearly identical face. "All too true."

They shook hands, the hug now out of sight but still on their minds. Though being Malfoys, neither was willing to admit that, of course. "Until we meet again."

Lucius raised his hand in farewell, a goodbye that went beyond this momentary parting to encompass, as well, his sincere wish that they never would meet again. Because once they did, only one would walk away alive-a far more permanent parting than any earthly one.

Draco raised his hand as well, passively watching with hooded, sad eyes as his father blinked out of existence, and knowing that he, too, hoped that they would not meet again.

* * *

"Happy Sixteenth." Jamie grinned as Draco blew out the candles. "I hope you'll excuse me for not getting you another gift, considering the way you _inconsiderately_ insisted that I give my original gift to you ahead of time."

"Hmpf. You shouldn't have kept it to yourself even that long." Draco sniffed.

"You know, giving me the cold shoulder won't work too well. Just think, then then only person you'd be able to talk to would be Severus!"

"You say that like it's a _bad_ thing." Severus gave Jamie the evil eye, to which the younger Snape simply retaliated with an extraordinarily realistic imitation of the Snape Smirk.

Meanwhile (hiding a smile at the good-natured bickering between father and son), Draco had been cutting the cake. He shoved plates in each of their directions and dug into his own piece with a vengeance. "Merlin, Sal! Which of the house elves made this beauty? D'you think Dumbledore would mind if I . . . borrowed . . . him?"

Snape took a cautious bite himself. "I'm afraid you're out of luck, Mr. Malfoy." He said in a mock-sorrowful tone. "You see, as faculty, _I_ have precedence over a mere student, so _I_ will be the one doing the borrowing."

Jamie, whose face and tips of his ears had been growing steadily redder, ducked his head and took a small bite of his own slice. "Damn. There's still a bit too much vanilla, and it's a bit crumblier than I expected . . ."

" _You_ made the cake?" Both Slytherins wore more-or-less the same poleaxed expression, although it was Draco who had spoken. The blond shook his head a couple times, violently. "You can _cook_?!"

"It's a useful ability to have." Jamie shrugged. "Though I must admit, my specialty is more along the lines of breakfast foods. 'Specially pan-fried bacon." He couldn't help an inward grin at Draco's reaction. Or, more specifically, that part of him that was Lucifer. Salazar's 'abilities' in the kitchen had been notorious, to say the least.

Of course, what few people realized was that, while not a world-class cook, Salazar had been at least decent. He just had never really enjoyed cooking . . . and knew that if he admitted to being able to cook edible food, he'd be roped into doing so. So he'd faked disasters that put Neville during Potions class to shame.

A rather 'Slytherin' thing to do, he thought.

Noticing that they were still looking at him, he passed through deep red into fuschia. Searching for an excuse to get the attention away from himself, he finally said weakly, "What about your other presents, Luce'?"

The Look they both gave him showed that both knew exactly what he had done, and most likely why-they _were_ Slytherin, after all-but it seemed that _this_ time, they'd let it pass. "Right." Draco finally replied.

Severus nodded. "Mine is the . . ." he trailed off as he got a good look at the pile beside the bed. ". . . only one?"

Draco's mouth twisted. "News travels fast, it seems." Jamie laid a hand on his friend's arm-he knew all too well, after all, what it was like to be shunned because of events out of one's control. But Draco shrugged off the offered consolation, though the saddish look in his eyes remained. "Not that I've ever gotten all that many presents from my fellow Slytherins. We may be a group that puts a great deal of emphasis on solidarity, but deep down, most of us are pretty much loners, after all."

He turned to Severus. "You should be happy. Fewer presents means a shorter party, which means more study time for our test on Tuesday." He quipped, and moved over to pick up the rather large, unwieldy package. As he got a better look at it, his face slowly brightened. "Is this what I think it is?!"

Wrapping paper flew everywhere, and Jamie laughed. "It's like watching a five-year-old." He observed quietly.

"Just don't let Draco catch you making that comparison." Severus replied, just as quietly, but with a fond/amused light in his eyes that showed his agreement.

"Too late." The blond grumped halfheartedly as he held his newest acquisition up to the light. "Wow, Severus! A brand-new Ruby Flame?!" Over the summer he had (embarrassingly enough) managed to crash himself into a tree, badly damaging his old broom but managing to escape with little more than a few cuts and scrapes, himself. It was still flyable . . . barely. Needless to say, he had _not_ been looking forward to trying to compete in Quidditch with it.

"No." Jamie answered dryly. "He bought one of the newest brooms on the market at a pawn shop." Severus watched the two interact, amused. "Oi! Watch where you're swinging that thing!"

Draco obligingly stopped, leaning against the broom with a very smug look on his face. "With _this_ baby, I'll _finally_ beat you to the snitch."

"Quite easily, considering that I'll be watching from the stands from now on. So you'll be competing against Lucia, probably, not me."

Draco pouted. "But that takes all the fun out of it! How could you quit _Quidditch_?!"

"I'm still _just_ enough of a Gryffindor that I feel it's unfair for me to be on the Gryffindor Quidditch team when I'm rooting for the other side."

"Well, just because you're a Slytherin now, don't think you're getting _my_ place." Draco hugged his broom possessively.

"Wouldn't dream of it." Jamie's lips twitched. His head jerked. "What's that?" A moment later, a black owl flew into the room through Draco's open window, deposited a small box, and flew back out.

Trepidation making his movements seem unnaturally stiff, Draco slowly opened the box, making an involuntary sound of surprise. "Father . . ."

Reverently, he began emptying the box of its contents, moving around the room and placing each item in an appropriate place. He shook his head. "He shouldn't have . . ." Figurines, clothing, a tiny toy broom, a book on runes that (Jamie was fairly sure) was not on any of the textbook lists, one that made Draco blush slightly. All the little sorts of things that personalized a room; the sort of thing that Jamie had never really had.

"He disowned you, didn't he." Otherwise, why would all these little things, the sort of thing that generally stayed at home while mostly only the necessities were brought to school, have been sent here?

"Not . . . precisely." A small blue blanket, slightly ragged around the edges, was picked up and placed, gently, folded, on the edge of the bed. "I am still legally a Malfoy . . . but we have agreed that, now that my changed allegiance is relatively common knowledge, it would be . . . unwise . . . for us to be around each other anymore."

He brushed off his hands and stood, turning around. "That's about it, I think. Interesting . . . there were several things hidden, in spots I could have _sworn_ he didn't known about . . . but I think he still managed to find it all."

"Luce' . . ." Jamie reached, knowing his friend wasn't taking this all nearly as calmly as he seemed.

"It's nothing, Sal. I . . . I'm actually quite happy! I hadn't expected Father to be so considerate as to send me all my things . . . now that I have them here, it's almost like home!"

"Luce . . ."

"And on top of it, I have a brand new broom! With you out of the way, Slytherin is almost _guaranteed_ to win the Quidditch Cup."

"Luce' . . . shut up. Are you even convincing _yourself_?"

The blond collapsed bonelessly to the floor, holding his head between his hands. "I didn't expect it to . . . hurt . . . this much." He admitted quietly, voice slightly muffled. "Everything has turned out for the best, in the long run . . . no one else has died . . . I _should_ be happy. I shouldn't be wishing there was some other way . . ."

"He told me he was proud of me, you know . . . for standing up for my beliefs, even if they don't match his . . . proud that I was acting as a true Malfoy. And now, if I ever see him again, I'm supposed to kill him . . . or simply capture him, knowing that if I do he'll either be sent to Azkaban, Kissed, or find a way to talk his way out of it, escaping to continue to aid Voldemort."

"And what scares me the most is . . . I'd do it. For you, Harry, I'd be willing to kill my own father, or to send him to a fate worse than death. My _father_. What kind of monster _am_ I?"

Jamie scooted over, tentatively putting his arm around Draco's shoulders and squeezing softly. "You're no more a monster than the rest of us around here, just a very loyal friend and son who's being forced to make a choice _no one_ should have to make."

He laughed a little. "I'd say that I'd choose you over Uncle Vernon in a moment . . . but then, I'd choose a _flobberworm_ over Uncle Vernon any day. Severus . . . would be a lot harder." He flicked a glance in the older man's direction. "But I think it would still be you . . . though I am _extremely_ glad that I will probably never have to make that choice."

Another quick glance. "And I'll bet that Severus would be willing to stand as father to you, if you want that sort of figure back in your life, if you were to ask him."

The Potions Master nodded firmly. "With the greatest of pleasure. I'm already your godfather, after all."

Draco let out a shaky sigh, raising his head at last. No tears streaked his face, though it was slightly more pale than the norm. "Thank you . . . both of you. I hate to think how I would have coped if I had been alone . . ."

"You wouldn't have been for very long." Jamie replied promptly. "Because I would have felt the distress you were broadcasting, come found you, and knocked some sense into you then. Though I might not have thought to bring Severus along."

"So nothing much would have changed." Severus supplied, a bit more sharply than he had meant to, due to the fact that he _still_ felt useless.

Draco shook his head. "Well, thank you anyway." He stood, stretched, and put on a smile that didn't look _too_ faked. It was obvious that he was at least beginning to return to equilibrium. "Severus? Thanks for the offer, but I think I'll stay your godson for now."

He flipped his head, for once wishing he had hair as long as the other two. " 'Draco Snape' is just _so_ not my style."

* * *

"Will you come with me to the Halloween Masquerade?"

Hermione looked up into her best friend's eyes and closed her book with a sigh. "I'm sorry, Ron, but . . ."

"I'm 'a day late and a dollar short' again, aren't I." Ron deflated into a chair across from her. "Phoo. Well, at least this time I didn't have to have it driven into my head that you really are a girl before it occurred to me to ask."

Hermione had to grin at that. "Hey, you're making progress! That's something . . ."

"Are you willing to tell me who you're going with, this time?" He asked, not really expecting a positive answer.

Unexpectedly, Hermione blushed. "Katie asked me. She and Alicia broke up-pretty badly too-just recently, and I walked in on her when she was still pretty distraught over it and . . . well . . ." She looked worried. "You don't hate me now, do you?"

Ron reached over to rap her on the head. "Are you kidding? It would take me a great deal more than _that_ to hate you. You're my best friend." A profound look came over his face. "You're my best friend." He repeated slowly. "When I think about you, I think of you as a friend, not a girlfriend. And I think I have for a while now . . . so why haven't I noticed until now?"

Hermione smiled. "To tell the truth, I'm relieved . . . I _really_ didn't want to break your heart, you know, because I'd do rather a lot to avoid causing you pain intentionally. I felt the same way, until I started noticing my attraction to Katie." The blush was back, though lighter.

"I think we got together because that was kind of what was _expected_ of us. It's only natural that, being so close, at least two of the three of us would pair up. And-truthfully-even before Harry became so distant, can you really imagine _either_ of us with him?"

A look appeared on Ron's face that was trapped somewhere between disgust and horror. "No. That's just . . . _wrong_ , somehow. Even if I weren't 100% straight, Harry's just too . . ."

"Harry." Hermione finished in perfect accord, as if that word explained everything. And maybe it did. "So, if you believe in such things, we were almost 'destined' to be together . . . yet we're really not alike enough to _stay_ together. But neither of us really realized that, so we kept on drifting apart (in the romantic sense of the word), without really acknowledging the fact that we had."

"So once we had it shoved in our face, it seemed like an abrupt change." Ron nodded. "Thou makest sense, as always."

"Why thank thee, kind sir." Hermione swept an imaginary curtsy.

". . . Just spare me the psychoanalysis, next time, okay?" He rubbed his forehead in mock pain. "You've given me a headache."

"I'll show you a headache!"

* * *

"This was in bad taste before, and it's in even worse taste now." Jamie pointed out, looking at himself in the mirror. Only the finishing touches to his costume were left.

When he and Draco had gotten together to start planning their costumes, Jamie had expected the other to come up with something more . . . like a pair of elven archers, perhaps-they were certainly both lithe enough to require very little adjustment. Or even their past selves, though no one else would get the reference. He had mentioned his previous idea in passing, meaning it to be a joke . . . and Draco had pounced, expanded the idea, and run with it.

"Don't look at it as a matter of taste." Draco smoothed his robe and fastened on the mask that was the last element of his costume. "Look at is an object lesson." Lucius Malfoy's somewhat deeper and even more aristocratic-sounding tones rang from behind the mask, slightly muffled, but still clearly understandable.

"I know." He cast one last glance over the facial illusion, checking it off carefully with his memory. He supposed, in the end, it _was_ somehow fitting, Slytherin masquerading as his 'Heir'. He smoothed his robe as well, feeling unaccountably nervous. "Well? What are we waiting for?"

* * *

The Dining Hall of Hogwarts was a madhouse, the likes of which had not been seen since the spring of '84, when (in the sort of going-away present of which the Marauders would have been proud), Bill Weasley had set up an impromptu rave, which had left nearly every student fourth-year and up hung over (on lack of sleep, if nothing else) and the Dining Hall an absolute mess.

Needless to say, after getting over the initial shock (a matter of mere moments for one who had seen so much as he), Dumbledore had enjoyed himself immensely. There was just something about being around young people at their best, when they threw away all their worries and just acted young. Something special. Something that kept him in this job long past the time even _he_ had expected to retire. It would take a great deal more than mere age to tear him away from his post now.

He panned the room, his slow observation making a certain, limited amount of sense out of the pandemonium, as he spotted costumes ranging from vampires to fairies, from (embarrassingly) himself to at least a dozen Harry Potters to one auburn-haired young man dressed in a colonial-style outfit who had come as Thomas Jefferson (or so he presumed). His unique position as Headmaster, and the extra power and ties to Hogwarts that position brought, as well as his own innate power, allowed him to see deeper than that, to touch the auras of each of these, his students.

There were many rumours and legends about his ability to see through Invisibility Cloaks even without such an aid as Moody's magical eye; it was only one of the abilities that made him seem nearly omnipotent in the eyes of the public . . . yet, like many 'truths' that have their basis in rumour, this one was not entirely so. He could not truly _see_ through Invisibility Cloaks and other such disguises, but very few people even knew to disguise their auras as well, much less thought to. And the auras of his students and teachers were beacons to him, each shining with its own, infinitely beautiful, unique light.

Inwardly, he frowned. There were two auras missing. Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter. He was fairly sure the Malfoy child had not yet become a Death Eater (and, with luck, never would . . . but even he did not hold out much hope on that account), for surely Severus would have told him before now. Even if he had been rather distant, this last month or so-trying both to negotiate with the Ministry and run his personal Order of freedom fighters, each a monumental task on its own, had left him with less time or energy to spare on the school than he would have wished.

Still, even if the likelihood of Harry having been kidnapped was relatively small, the fact that it was _those_ two missing, on the precise night they'd be least likely to be missed, was . . . disturbing.

The doors to the hall slammed open, and almost as if it had been spelled, silence quickly descended as every eye in the hall fixed itself on the two figures standing in the eerie wash of (even magically heightened) candlelight, on the unnaturally pale and rather deformed face of one and the instantly recognizable, handsome face of the other, as he slowly detached the equally recognizable mask from where it had hidden his mouth and nose and drew back his hood.

Not just Dumbledore's eyes, but his odd aura-sensing ability was tuned on the two figures in the doorway, and what the latter had to tell him was _very_ interesting indeed. These two were the two missing, of course-Draco Malfoy as, unsurprisingly, his father (though the fact that he had chosen to show his father in the man's Death Eater persona, something that many knew or suspected, but few had the courage to actually accuse the elder Malfoy of, was quite surprising indeed), and Harry Potter as Lord Voldemort, in all his reborn 'glory'.

No, this was not what had Dumbledore temporarily doubting the truth of what he was seeing. _That_ came from the way in which the two boys' auras seemed, at times, to meld into one, and at other times swirled around each other, entirely at ease simulating a single, larger whole. The way only the auras of two who had been bonded to one another would act. He eyed a rather morose Lily Potter. _I think that you and I will be having a_ talk _soon, Severus . . ._

* * *

Stalking into the hall, Jamie was struck by a sudden feeling of stage fright. He _didn't_ want to do this . . . _neither_ of his personae had ever liked the spotlight. But . . . it was a lesson that needed to be learned. He pointed his wand at random, landing on a girl wearing nothing more than a bikini with a very short skirt and large, iridescent butterfly wings. "You. Who am I."

She quailed. "Y . . . You-Know-Who?"

He sneered, only partly faking. Voldemort was someone to be wary of, certainly-it would be sheer suicide to ignore someone with that much power at their disposal, after all-but the sheer terror displayed (by many others in the room as well as the butterfly girl) was . . . pitiful. "Wrong. Lucius? If you please?"

Draco swept a bow. "My pleasure, my Lord." He could almost feel his blond friend rolling his eyes, though the voice contained not even a hint of anything other than the most servile gratitude. He pointed his wand. " _Tarantallegra._ "

Not even stopping to watch the reaction, Jamie turned again. This time, a middle-aged wizard in ornate robes-almost certainly some famous historical figure that Jamie had slept through. "You?" The other just backed away, shaking his head wordlessly. _Isn't there_ anyone _good around here?_ "Lucius?"

" _Furnunculus_." Draco had thoroughly mastered the art of sounding and acting bored when casting spells.

And so it went, as Jamie cut a swath through intimidated young people of (literally) all shapes and sizes, Draco tossing out a multitude of curses and charms, none painful but most exceedingly embarrassing (which was, in some ways, more important to such generally sheltered children as these Hogwarts students than mere physical pain, at least at this point in their lives). Nothing the application of a few judicious _Finite Incantatum_ s wouldn't cure.

Finally (as both had hoped would happen), someone snapped. A young woman in an elaborately wrapped toga with a tiny owl (a rather impressively lifelike illusion, that) perched on her shoulder rose slowly to her feet. "Voldemort."

Jamie inclined his head in her direction mockingly. "That's Lord Voldemort to you, little girl."

"Voldemort." She repeated, louder this time. "And whoever else you are, let me tell you, this is a very cruel joke, and I won't stand for it. One of our number was _killed_ by him less than a week ago, and now you're . . . _parading_ . . . like being that sort of murderer is something to be _proud_ of." Her face had grown red by this time at the force of and feeling behind her outburst. "Whoever you are . . . you're _disgusting._ "

Now that someone had finally stood up to him, there were growing murmurs of agreement from people too cowed to do anything when they risked being along. Jamie's sneer became more pronounced, a little more real and less pretend. "Ooh, I'm _scared._ " He laughed. "Your disgust wounds me deeply, I assure you. So deeply, I think I'll just turn around and slink away, my tail between my legs."

Distantly, he noted that his stage fright had entirely faded away, now that he was deep into their little act. He laughed-closer to a cackle, to tell the truth-again, strolling forward. "You mean _nothing_ to me, girl. Only power matters-and until you demonstrate that you have any worth dealing with, I won't even bother to notice you. Of course, if I ever figure out that you _do_ have power worth dealing with, I'll probably kill you . . . but that's the way things go."

"Life doesn't care for your grief, your pain, your disgust . . . and neither do I. Life goes on until it stops . . . and it will still go on without you. Learn your lesson well now, little girl, before life teaches it to you in a more . . . painful fashion."

Her face had passed red and was approaching fuschia. "Leave. Whoever you are, just leave. Before I am tempted to deal with you myself."

He sniffed. "Remember what I said? You're not worth my time." He swept the room with his crimson gaze. "None of you are." He deliberately turned his back on the girl-he was almost certain she was Hermione, even more certain she was at least a Gryffindor. And Gryffindors just don't do dishonorable things like stabbing you in the back, at least not without a great deal more provocation. It was safe to turn his back as he stalked away.

Passing Draco, he turned his head only slightly. "Come, Lucius."

Another servile duck of his head. "Yes, my Lord."

* * *

"I agree with the girl in the toga. That _was_ disgusting."

It was only one of many similar sentiments, but for some reason it was this particular voice that caught Ron's attention. He turned. "Enough to make me sorry I didn't say anything first. I mean, it's not like You-Know-Who was _really_ here."

There was a black elf nodding along with his words-a dark elf might be the more appropriate way of stating things, considering that her hair was not flat black, but had bluish tints, and her skin was actually closer to charcoal grey.

"We don't know for _sure_." Her companion, a light elf that was different enough to seem like a photo negative with her porcelain skin and nearing silver-white hair, noted. "Though if he actually appeared, I _suppose_ there would be some sort of alarm system that would be set off and alert the teachers. So it almost certainly was just a couple of students engaging in an extremely unfunny joke." She rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Regardless, he did bring up a couple of good points, even if the presentation was . . . less than optimal."

The dark elf turned to him. "You're Charlie Weasley, right? I'm afraid I don't know the Weasley family very well, but . . ."

Ron nodded, all out of proportion gratified by the fact that someone had recognized his 'costume'. "That's right. Who are you? I know you're an elf, but if Professor Binns ever covered any famous ones, I was probably asleep at the time."

The dark elf laughed. "Who isn't? You wouldn't have found us, in any case, as we're just generic elves. Call me . . . Shadow."

"And I'll be . . ." The light elf cocked her head. "Sunshine sounds just too sixties. Too hippyish. Sunny . . . hm. Ditto. How about Ray?" She sighed, quietly enough that neither of the other two noticed, as she came to the conclusion that no, _neither_ of them had heard her last comment. Either that, or they were intentionally ignoring it . . .

"I like it." The dark elf-Shadow-enthused. "Ray and Shadow it is."

In a rare flash of something resembling insight, Ron looked from one to the other. "You're . . . together, aren't you? I'm sorry, I'm disturbing you . . ."

"Oh, not at all!" Shadow assured him blithely.

"We came together," Ray explained, focusing on assuaging the misinterpretation that Shadow had evidently either completely missed or ignored instead _(again)_ , "but we're only friends." A brief flash of . . . something . . . crossed her face. "So, if you _want_ to hang around with people as strange as us" she winked "then feel free."

"Okay." Ron sighed in relief. "Just checking, 'cause, you see, the girl that I thought was my girlfriend but actually wasn't really is coming with another girl tonight and so . . ." A shrug ". . . I guess I'm kinda hyper-sensitized to that sort of thing right now."

"She just threw you over?" Shadow protested indignantly. "That b-"

Ray coughed delicately into one hand while covering her friend's mouth with the other. "We're sorry to hear that. I hope it wasn't a _bad_ break up."

Ron blinked. "Oh, it wasn't a proper break up at all. I asked her, she said sorry, she was going with someone else, and somewhere along the line we realized that we weren't really boy-and-girlfriend anymore, if we even had been to begin with." He shrugged and grinned slightly. "Sadly lacking in mental and emotional anguish, I know, but . . ."

"Get _off_ , P-Ray." Shadow finally freed herself of her friend's hand. "I'm glad to hear that."

Ron smiled. "So am I."

And Ray looked from her friend to the Weasley, shrugged slightly, and decided to wander off and find someone else to talk with. Considering how wrapped up in each other they looked about to become, it was almost certain that they wouldn't be terribly good company.

And it wasn't hard watching . . . Shadow get like this around someone, even if she hadn't really realized that that was what she was doing. Of course it wasn't. Not at all. Ray just didn't want to be a third wheel. That's all.

Really.

* * *

"So . . . d'you think they actually learned anything?"

Draco made a show of considering for a few moments. "I dunno, Sal. It's kinda hard to pay attention to a life lesson when you're busy shitting yourself from fright."

"Did they _really_ think I was the real thing? I mean, some of them obviously understood-the Greek girl who finally stood up to us, for one. But really . . . if Voldemort couldn't get here any other day of the year, why on earth would he suddenly be capable of doing so just because of a masquerade ball? _Furthermore_ , if he knew it was a masquerade, do they really think he'd be stupid enough to come as himself?"

Draco laughed. "I get your point. Most people are morons."

Jamie, however, had paused. "I take that last point back. That sounds like just _exactly_ the sort of stupid crap Voldemort would come up with. 'Slytherin's Heir' my . . . foot."

Draco snorted his amusement. "Especially as there _is_ not such beastie." A pause. ". . . Unless, of course, you're not telling me something?"

"Luce', dearest, I'm still getting over the shock of finding out that any of my spawnlings managed to _procreate_!" Despite the derogatory connotations, Jamie's tone when he referred to his 'spawnlings' was fond, if colored a bit by the shadow of a memory of past exasperation. "Obviously, my . . . descendants" he twitched; despite vague memories of a life of over two hundred years, there was still a bit of the fifteen-year-old boy around as well. Especially when he thought about the fact that he could be legitimately called his own descendant . . . "would have inherited a certain amount of power-I _was_ pretty powerful, after all."

"Second only to Gryffindor." Draco murmured, a hint of a grin flickering across his face.

A sniff. "I still say he cheated. Somehow. But back to my point-I left a few things behind, not necessarily intentionally . . . my Chamber and Xia, for example . . . but no, I did _not_ make any sort of specific preparations for an 'heir' to come in later years."

"Xia." Draco brightened. The basilisk had always been one of his favorites of Salazar's pets. "How about we ditch this joint and go visit her for a while? Not like anyone would miss us." After their sweeping exit, the two had quietly moved around and found themselves an empty balcony; they were still 'part of' the festivities, but it was rather unlikely than anyone would find them.

Jamie closed his eyes. "Remember second year, Draco?" He asked softly. _Oh, my beloved pet . . . what have I done? Why is it that every time I encounter Voldemort, I end up losing someone important to me?_

Draco winced. "It would be hard to forget, considering my father . . ." he trailed off. "Oh. The Chamber . . . Xia . . . Sal, you didn't . . .!"

Salazar angrily wiped away the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as he turned away and focused his eyes on the beautiful night; the cold, uncaring stars. _Xia . . . I'm so sorry . . ._

* * *

Ron was having the time of his life. It was as if 'breaking up' with Hermione had freed a part of him that he hadn't realized was chained. Not that he had ever felt genuinely restrained by their relationship, such as it had been, even when it had been at its most . . . real.

But some part of him would have felt guilty about enjoying just _being_ with another girl so much if he had still thought of himself as 'involved'. _Once again, 'Mione, you prove just how much smarter than me you are . . ._

"Anything specific behind that smile?" Shadow asked from beside him, as she walked further out into the garden and turned her face up to look at the stars.

"Nothing but cobwebs!" Ron replied proudly, and was rewarded by her giggle. "No, really, I was just thinking how lucky I am to have the friends I do." He moved closer to her, tilting his head upwards as well. "My ex-girlfriend, she's . . . a lot smarter than me. It's nice to know that she's almost certain to have the answer, even when I haven't a clue.

"My other best friend, he's . . . well, he's a lot more distant lately. Different. But . . . I know that if I were ever in serious trouble, he'd still be there to pull me out of it, even if we don't do homework and crack jokes and talk about Quidditch together anymore."

Shadow smiled wistfully. "That must be nice. Your ex-girlfriend . . . I used to have a friend like her, too. Of course, when I came here, she stayed back home, and there's really no way to keep in touch. Ray is wonderful; I don't know how I would have survived here without her, but . . . I just want to go home sometimes.

"Your other best friend reminds me of my brother . . ." she trailed off, hugging herself. Glad that he had transfigured his clothes into one of Charlie's outfits that included a jacket, and thinking that she was cold, Ron shrugged off his jacket and handed it to her. For a moment, she stared blankly, then smiled and put it on, though her eyes stayed sad. "He was older than me by nearly ten months, it turns out, though we thought it was a matter of weeks. We always celebrated our birthdays together, we went to the same school together, we got into and out of scrapes together . . . he wasn't just my brother, he was like a twin and a best friend all rolled up into one.

"I miss him. More than I ever thought possible . . ." She shivered again.

"Did he stay home too?"

"I . . ." Suddenly, she laughed. "Yes, you could say that!" And started laughing again. A harsh, bitter laugh, it caused goosebumps to rise all along Ron's arms, an uneasy feeling in the back of his head. Still she laughed, climbing higher until it became hysterical, until it was clear she couldn't stop. The sort of laughter Ron imagined Sirius might have laughed when standing in the middle of a destroyed street, knowing his life had just been demolished as surely as the road he stood on, knowing that the perpetrator would escape scot free.

She sank to her knees, still howling, rocking back and forth. "Shadow!" He called, trying to break her out of it. Reaching out, he paused for a moment. Should he really? Growing up in such a large family, sleeping in the same room with four other boys, he had practically ingrained in him a healthy amount of respect for other people's personal space-especially if given time in which to consider. Was this the right thing to do?

"Shadow!" What else could he do? Decision made, he took hold of her shoulders and shook her, hard. "Shadow, what happened?"

For a moment, her eyes met his. For a moment, they seemed to flash green, a shade of green he had seen only twice before. Her arms flashed out, gripping his so hard that even in the dim light, he could see her knuckles whiten, so hard he imagined he heard his bones grinding together. "He died." She whispered, grinning maniacally. "The curse was aimed at me, but he got in the way. And then he died. Oh, yeah, he's still home, all right. Six feet under!" And the laughter began again.

"Shadow . . ." He was overcome with the urge to commiserate with her loss, to try to convince her that everything would be all right, to take her into his arms and never let her go. None of that would help, right now, though. Again, more desperately, he shook her. "Shadow, snap out of it!"

Somehow, she had managed to bury her face against his chest, but he could still see her shoulders shaking, feel the vibrations. The sound was muffled, now, but she was still laughing. In the back of his mind, something clicked. "Harry!"

And just like that, the laughter stopped. Her head raised. Their eyes met. Hers widened. "Ron . . ."

It was the first time he could remember her actually saying his name. At first, she had referred to him consistently as 'Weasley'; more recently, especially after she helped him on a couple of projects, the 'Weasley' habit had been replaced by a subtle refusal to call him by any name at all.

"I'm here, Harry." He continued to speak, not entirely aware of what he was saying, only knowing that he was trying the hardest he knew how to comfort the girl kneeling in front of him.

For a moment, he thought he had gotten through to her. She seemed to be relaxing, the walls she had held close around her as long as he had known her finally beginning to fade. Then, suddenly, she was struggling to her feet. "Ron . . . no . . ." Her head shook, more and more rapidly. "No . . . this isn't right . . . this can't . . ."

Finally standing all the way, the jacket fell, forgotten, to the ground. "No!" Even before he could get to his feet, she had fled from the circle of light, disappearing into the dark.

"Harry! _Harry, wait_!"

* * *

Jamie didn't know what it was that directed Draco's attention down towards the couple in the garden below; for him, it had been the high-pitched, obviously hysterical laughter that rang through the night. He bent over the railing, trying to discern features.

Then . . . it happened again, the way it had once before, in Hogsmeade, when he had been standing on the other side of the street from the weapons shop. Only this time, he noticed it happening, the way his vision focused and seemed to zoom in on the pair standing . . . no, kneeling now . . . below.

A young, female dark elf; her features blended too well with the night-even with his better-than-usual night vision-for him to discern much more than that. It was from her that the laugh came, as she gripped the other's arms so tightly Jamie was mildly surprised that her fingernails had not drawn blood. The other-Charlie Weasley. _Not_ one of the recognizable faces that Jamie had been expecting to recognize, for, though his job was a 'glamourous' one, and he was relatively adept at it, few students (especially at this age) paid enough specific attention to those sorts of affairs to create such a realistic facsimile.

And then the obvious answer came to him. _Ron._ Of course. As family, he'd know Charlie about as well as anyone, and Charlie's fame, the glamour of his position and his accomplishments, perhaps even in some small way his physical attractiveness-nothing on Earth could convince Ron that someday he _would_ grow into the rest of his body . . . and that there was a certain charm to the way he looked even now- _all_ the sorts of things that Ron wanted, or thought he wanted; everything that he felt overshadowed by. So for tonight, it was logical that he would step out of that shadow by becoming one of the ones who cast it.

"Any idea who the girl is?" Jamie idly asked Draco.

The blond boy's ears twitched. "No, nor the boy. It's hard restraining my curiosity, though . . ." And twitched again-this time, Jamie was _certain_ he had not just imagined the phenomenon. "Of course, _you_ wouldn't have that problem, considering that they're not wearing anything shiny." He added, insultingly.

"I'm mostly over that, you know." Was Jamie's dignified response. Yes, dignified. No, not sulky. Of course not. "Besides, at least _I_ showed a response. You didn't . . . but then, you've always been something of a kleptomaniac, so I guess there wasn't much left to change."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Sal . . ."

" _Harry, wait!_ "

Hearing his birth-name, Jamie whirled just in time to see the dark elf dashing away from Charlie into the depths of the garden, and away from Hogwarts. "Harry?" _That_ possibility had not even occurred to him. He sighed. "Luce, cover the fort. I'm going after Lucia . . . before she gets into any serious trouble." Blessing the increased strength, resilience, and reflexes he had gained through strenuous practice in Survival, as well as the memories of knowledge of other ways to react-tested in _real_ battle environments-he flipped himself over the railing, landing relatively softly on the ground below, and took off after his wayward alternate.

Rolling his eyes, Draco grabbed a couple of the vines they had climbed up on and climbed back down that way-a slower, but far more dignified way to go. He strolled over to the Weasley-who was (he, like Jamie, had eventually come to the correct conclusion, even if it _had_ taken him a bit longer to do so) another of the annoying clan, Jamie's former partner-in-crime-and peremptorily offered him a hand up.

"Don't worry about your little girlfriend. Sal's gone after her; he'll have her back in no time."

Weasley nodded reluctantly. "Okay." It was obvious that only _then_ did he get a look at Draco's face. And unlike Jamie, who had switched almost immediately from Voldemort to his secondary costume, his former self, Draco was still Lucius-Malfoy-as-Death-Eater. " _You!_ "

It seemed like he had just blinked; between one moment and the next he suddenly became aware that he was lying on the ground. And his jaw _hurt_ , dammit! Receding sound prompted him to come to the conclusion-again correct-that the Weasley brat was stalking away; no doubt with an unbearably smug look on his face.

With a sigh (that made his jaw hurt _more_ . . . grr . . .), he tucked his hands behind his head and opened his eyes, looking towards the stars glowing directly above him. _Damn you, Salazar Slytherin. Why do you always take the_ easy _job?_

* * *

Now Jamie was blessing Survival (and training earlier in life, courtesy of Dudley Dursley and Co.) for his stamina. If there was one thing to be said about Lucia, it was that she could _run_. He could sense the edge of a large majority of Hogwarts' defensive wards coming up very soon, and he was still only marginally closer to catching up with her.

And as if that wasn't enough, now she was speeding up . . .

He groaned and tried to pump an extra notch of speed into his legs; he _really_ wanted to get back to Draco and the party, not dash through who knows what in the middle of the night chasing after a hysterical _Gryffindor_. Who was acting like a poster-child of the species, to his mind. Well, except for the whole 'running away' angle.

There went the wards . . . and suddenly, he was speeding up as well. He could feel a pull, a very _noticeable_ one, that gave him that extra speed. _Something_ had caught Lucia, and now it had caught him. And Jamie had a sneaking suspicion that that 'something' started with a V and had the initials T.M.R.

_Of course . . . what would a year at Hogwarts be without a life-threatening encounter with the Scourge of the Wizarding World?_ He thought facetiously. But for once, this confrontation would actually be one of his own choosing . . . well, more than the previous ones had been, at any rate. The pull lessened as he finally caught up with Lucia, standing just behind her and taking deep breaths to get his breathing back to normal.

The dark elf turned. "Who are you, and what do you want with me?" She asked suspiciously.

He tossed a facetious salute. "Yo, Lucia."

"Jamie?!" Her eyes lit up, but then she sighed. "Why is it that _every_ time I find myself doing something even _I_ think is stupid, you're always around? Can't you let me be disgusted with myself in peace, for once?"

He grinned. "But where would be the fun in that?" Then jerked his head back the way they had come. "Now, what do you say we head back to the castle? Or at least get ourselves back inside the wards?"

Her eyes, which had previously been examining the toes of her shoes with every evidence of fascination, shot up to meet his, surprise and a certain healthy amount of worry in them. "We're outside Hogwarts' wards?!" Her hand reached out to grip his arm. "Yes! Let's go back in at once!"

But now it was he who was distracted, as a glint of light from the ground caught his eye. He bent down, unable to contain his curiosity, to pick it up. A . . . paper clip. Nearly brand new, too, considering the way it reflected even just the light of the quarter moon. He nodded. "Yeah . . . let's do."

The pull at his navel took him by surprise, and he could almost _hear_ Draco's voice mocking him. _Ooh, look, shiny! Let's pick it up!_

* * *

"Ah, Harry Potter. I was wondering how long it would take before you ventured outside the Hogwarts wards on one of your little . . . adventures." A voice he knew well . . . especially after having used it less than an hour previous. "And tonight . . . how _fitting_ , that the child would die the same day as the parents, if separated by an unfortunate number of years."

Slowly standing, Jamie winced. He had forgotten how much being near Voldemort made his scar hurt. It was . . . bearable . . . but not by much. "Oh, I don't know. I rather prefer the symmetry to my killing you the same night I banished you." His eyes finally fully adjusted to the relatively dim light, he could see Voldemort sitting in a tall, ornate chair. Dark, of course-what in the room wasn't? Even the torches gave off less light than usual, and that with an eerie greenish cast reminiscent of the Killing Curse.

And, surprisingly, alone. "What, no back up? But who's going to clean up the mess that's all that will be left when I'm done with you?"

" _Silencio_." Voldemort pointed his wand in Jamie's direction and loosed the spell with a speed that caught his reflexes by surprise. He _had_ seen it coming, a definite improvement from the beginning of the year, but he had not been able to move in time. So, sadly, he had to content himself with glaring murderously at the snake-faced monster-who, yes, was still as ugly as ever. And vowing to research into the possibility of wand- and/or incantation-less use of magic at the first opportunity.

The man formerly known as Tom Riddle leaned back into his chair with a contented sigh. "Yes, this is much more peaceful, is it not?" Then his eyes focused on Lucia. "You. Why is it that you were brought along as well? I specifically targeted the attraction spell towards Harry Potter."

Jamie closed his eyes. Was Voldemort a complete _moron_? Surely at least one of the students had mentioned the existence of an 'exchange student', a girl who looked almost exactly like Harry Potter? It wasn't _that_ great a deductive leap to make.

And then the eyes traveled back to him. "Come to think of it . . . you have the black hair and the green eyes, but you're not _Potter_ either."

_Now_ the silencing spell came in handy, because he had a perfectly logical excuse to merely smirk in the Dark Lord's direction. After a moment's thought, he decided to add insult to injury and drew a cloak out of one of his capacious pockets, swirling it around his shoulders and mentally exchanging congratulations with himself over how well the illusions had remained attached to the cloak-he now looked, as he had earlier, like an exact duplicate of the . . . man . . . lounging in the throne across the room.

"It _was_ you!" Lucia burst out, making as if to advance on him. "That was the most _tasteless_ thing I have _ever_ seen! _Especially_ with Zabini less than a month dead."

_Oh, honestly, Lucia, don't you think there are a few slightly more important things to be worrying about?_ He spared a brief thought wondering just how disturbing it would look as he rolled his (borrowed) bright scarlet eyes. Then smacked his forehead with one deathly pale hand as her anger evidently proved to be the last straw and caused her to lose control of her illusion.

This is one reason why he and Draco had chosen to attach their spells to the clothes they were wearing . . . though, to be fair, he didn't think Professor Flitwick had covered that particular use of charms in class yet. Oops. Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "Glamour . . . and a _female_ Harry Potter?" Lucia's angry gaze transferred from Jamie to the Dark Lord, but she made no verbal reply. "Ah, you must be that new student that my people mentioned briefly . . . Evans, I believe?"

_Congratulations, oh Discerning One, you win a prize!_ Being sarcastic was fun, but not nearly as fun as it would have been if he'd been able to utter the words aloud. There was just something about pissing Voldemort off . . .

Ah, well. Now that Lucia was outed, he might as well show himself as well. He detached the cloak, shoving it back into his pocket, and smiling slightly as he slid back into the familiar/unfamiliar form of a late-teens, early-20s Salazar Slytherin. Touching his forehead with his right forefinger, he snapped thumb and middle finger in his left and, with that trigger, his former self melted away as well. He threw in an elaborate-but obviously mocking-bow in the direction of the throne, for good measure.

"So, I was correct." Voldemort smirked. "What, Potter? No more banter or wordplay?"

Jamie rolled his eyes again. _Oh, yeah, I've got plenty . . . however, there_ is _the small problem of a silencing spell . . ._ And he was not fool enough to believe that Voldemort would take it off before challenging him to the inevitable duel. Hope, yes. Calculate a far better than even chance, yes. (What fool would give their opponent back their wand, if they _really_ wanted to get rid of them that badly?) But depend on it? No.

He began cataloguing his person, subtly sliding his hands into his pockets. His wand was invisible, attached to his bracers-a feature that the man at the shop had neglected to mention (or perhaps never known in the first place), but that Salazar, as their creator, was intimately familiar with. But with this silencing spell still in full force, his wand was pretty much useless. Unless Voldemort let him close enough to shove it up that slit nose . . .

The two main apparatuses of the bracers, where his daggers should be, were still achingly empty. _Too bad, too. It would relieve me of a great deal of frustration to shove one of them into the bastard's heart. And twist it. See if he can survive_ that _._ Other than that . . . a quill, a small jar of ink that he generally carried around with him and just refilled from from the larger jars stored in his trunk . . .

His questing fingers came across a cool glass object, recognizably a different size than his ink bottle, and for a moment, he froze. _Oh, wait . . . that's right._ He considered being annoyed at himself for forgetting to put the bottle up before now, but considering that it was the most useful object he had on him (assuming, as he did, the unlikeliness of him getting anywhere near Voldemort's nose with his wand), he supposed he'd forego the lecture for once.

If he remembered correctly, the small glass vial held a variation of the mythical Youth Potion, his father's latest 'detention' assignment for himself and Draco. An upper-level sixth-year potion, he had assigned it in 'commemoration' of the fact that the latest stunt he and Draco had pulled to ruin their own potion during actual class time had gone slightly awry and ended up spilling on _him_ , as well as splashing both the perpetrators. It _had_ been harmless, but Severus was still just annoyed enough _("Do you_ know _how long it will take to clean the spots out of this robe? Couldn't you at_ least _have had the decency to splash me with a_ dark _-colored potion?! How many decent robes do you think I have?")_ that there had been no easy little 'Redo the potion we did in class- _correctly_ , this time'; not this time.

His hand closed tightly around the bottle. There _was_ no such thing as the Fountain of Youth of Muggle imagining-and wizarding as well, for despite their longer lifespans, they too eventually grew old . . . and were more often than not resistant to that change. This potion was not that well known-or perhaps the better way to put it would be 'not that well _remembered_ '-and practically its only use was as a fairly common part of the sixth year Potions curriculum.

Instead of fixing a person's age, not letting them grow older; or returning them to a useful younger age (such as their twenties or thirties); this potion reverted _everyone_ , regardless of their starting age, to somewhere between two and three years of age. Evidently, although becoming younger was a common wish, somehow, becoming a toddler did not hold quite the same allure. And to add to that, the potion not only had a relatively short life-it held its victim to toddler-hood for no more than about five years, and usually a significantly shorter period of time, before returning them, _not_ to their original age, but to the age they would have been after that time passed, had they not taken the potion-but had a fairly simple antidote.

This antidote was generally taught just after the potion in question (in case any of the students got any . . . bright ideas), at the end of the sixth year curriculum, but was simple enough that even a average third-year potions student could brew it.

So, all in all, it was not a terribly _useful_ potion. But having something smack you in the face when you're trying to cast a spell _is_ rather distracting. And that was if the potion _didn't_ work, for one reason or another. If it did . . . well, Voldemort would probably be a helpless child at _least_ long enough for the two of them to escape. Jamie nodded firmly, no longer feeling nearly as helpless.

When he turned the majority of his attention back to the other people in the room, he was slightly surprised at how little time had passed. Voldemort had evidently decided that baiting a mute Harry Potter was no fun at all (and unmuting him would allow him to give as good as he got, also not terribly fun), and had subsequently turned his attention back to Lucia. She was getting more and more annoyed and angered, he more amused.

Jamie sighed (still silently, of course), reluctant to admit that he sympathized more with Voldemort than his sister-of-sorts in this particular argument . . . but then, he had proven many times over that he too had something of a knack for angering the black-haired Gryffindor. Although he was also getting a bit annoyed . . . now that he had a plan, he was ready to get the 'mortal combat' over with.

For whatever reason, Lucia looked like she too had reached the end of her patience. Her cheeks were a shade of magenta Jamie was used to seeing only on Ron those times his temper got the better of him as she drew her wand.

Voldemort laughed, head tilted back and mouth open, showing a multitude of teeth far too sharp to be human. "Oh, look! The little mouse has teeth!"

_Note to self: try to find and capture Wormtail at some point._ Jamie reminded himself as he kept a close eye on the Dark Lord, who was also drawing his wand. Not to point at Lucia, however, but to be brought straight to bear on Jamie himself. He experienced a brief moment of nervousness, trying to remember just how much protection Lucifer's abilities as Necromancer gave him against the Killing Curse. He was _pretty_ sure he'd survive . . .

" _Avada Kedavra!_ "

" _Petrificus Totalus!_ "

And with all his might and aim, Jamie threw the glass bottle straight at Voldemort. _I_ really _hope that's one of the vials we forgot to put an Unbreakable Charm on . . ._

* * *

Rubbing his jaw-which, by the way, _still_ hurt-Draco finally stood and began moving towards the doors leading back into the hall. _This_ time, he made sure to remove mask and cloak and put them away _before_ encountering anyone else-especially those who might have similar ideas to Weasley of appropriate ways to express their disgust at his and Harry's little . . . presentation.

Once inside, he milled around aimlessly, exchanging words only with those who bothered to speak with him first; even then speaking only briefly before moving on. Not to put too fine a point on it, he was _bored_. Although it _was_ nice to not have to put up with being about the same height as most second years for once. Still . . . he hoped Harry would get back soon. Now that he had been reminded, he still wanted to revisit the Chamber; see how much had changed over the millennia.

Even though Xia . . . He shook away the painful thought. And not being a Parselmouth himself, he couldn't get in without Harry. Salazar had once spent a great deal of time and effort on trying to teach him Parseltongue, thinking it would be a useful thing for him to know-and a good way to communicate with almost no chance of anyone else being able to listen in. Unfortunately, Parseltongue was not simply a language, but an inborn gift-ordinary humans, even ordinary wizards, simply did not have the physical equipment necessary to make a large number of the sounds necessary to communicate in the language of the snakes.

As he recalled, they had both finally given up around the time Lucifer, in an effort to mimic Salazar's hissed 'Open', had instead achieved a muddled phrase approximately equivalent to 'Your mother sucks eggs'. Now, he could snicker. It had not been nearly as funny at the time.

"Mind if I ask what was so amusing?" He spun to find a red-haired woman whose familiar green eyes had her tentatively identified as Lily . . . oh, Potter, he supposed. She was looking vaguely cornered, most likely due to the presence of a . . . he blinked . . . human-sized bumblebee. With a long white beard. That was hovering next to her.

He shook his head. "An old memory. Rather embarrassing at the time, but . . ."

"Ah, yes. I know that sort of memory quite well." At the sound of the bumblebee's voice, Draco knew that his conjecture-Dumbledore-had been correct. _I'm rather surprised that the man has enough of a sense of shame to be embarrassed by_ anything _, though . . ._ Was his carefully unspoken thought. "Forgive an old man his memory, but . . . I am not sure I recognize your costume."

Draco swept an elegant bow. _Seems like all that training Mother forced me through_ was _useful for something, after all. Who would have thought?_ "Lucifer, at your service."

Lily had the look of someone who had just put together several obvious clues-in other words, she looked rather like she'd like to go find an abandoned corner in which she could smack herself, bang her head against the wall, or both. "Luce'?"

"The very same." He tipped an imaginary hat to her. "You know, there's something vaguely disturbing and almost hilariously ironic to the fact that you're currently in the body of someone whose legal last name is Potter."

She looked like she had just tasted something disgusting. "I did _not_ need to think about that, thank you. So, this is where the nickname came from? What about Sal'?"

Draco grinned. "Pretty much. As for Sal', I'll let _him_ tell you himself. Until then . . ." He pantomimed zipping his mouth, padlocking the zipper, and throwing away the key.

Lily had a very mutinous look on her face, but also knew enough of her student that she knew trying to convince him otherwise at this point in time would be futile and an utter waste of her time. Just as well, for Draco was no longer paying any attention to her or, indeed, to anything other than a growing pain in his head. Despite himself, he winced, bringing his hand up to cover the center of his forehead.

"Mr. Malfoy, what is wrong?" The bumblebee, if it was possible for such insects to show emotions, was looking vaguely worried.

Lily's worry was in no way a vague or hard-to-interpret thing. "Is . . . Mr. Potter . . .?" It was clear she was trying for her formerly usual venom in association with that name; equally clear that the only people she'd have fooled were first-year Hufflepuffs and Ronald Weasley.

_That_ had not occurred to him, for some reason. He carefully sorted out the sensations. "Yeah, it's Harry's headache. Stupid ass, what has he gotten himself into now?"

This got him a considering look from the bumblebee. "It has been documented that Mr. Potter's scar tends to hurt when he is near to, or when Voldemort is feeling particularly vindictive."

"Harry is out somewhere confronting _the Dark Lord_? Without me?!" He clenched his fists and began unconsciously grinding his teeth. "He _better_ get out of there alive . . . because when he gets back, I _will_ have the pleasure of strangling him with my own bare hands."

Lily's lips twitched, despite her (still quite apparent) worry. "I believe he got the best of you last time . . ."

A malicious grin. "Ah, but this time he _is_ in the wrong, and knows it. And he's just Gryffindor enough to let me have my way because he knows he deserves it." Cracking of knuckles. "Perhaps I should go visit Filch. Catch a few pointers before Sal' gets back."

A vision formed itself in his mind's eye; he froze as it grew to easy visibility. _We aren't supposed to be able to see through each other's eyes like this . . ._ Was his only coherent thought as he watched Voldemort and the Evans girl emit curses from their wands, watched/felt Harry bring his hand out of his pocket, voiceless, and throw the glass bottle in the Dark Lord's general direction.

Watched as, somehow- _is Evans' aim_ really _that bad?_ -the three met at the exact same point. The jar- _I guess it_ wasn't _one of the ones with Unbreakable Charms on them . . . or can the Killing Curse break even that?_ -exploded. And at the point of impact, some sort of . . . hole was growing. His- _no, Harry's_ -ponytail whipped forward; he could feel the wind sucking him toward the hole, but was able to resist fairly well.

Not so Evans, who had evidently been struck by _something_ coming off the wall and was now flipping through the air directly toward the hole, nothing nearby to catch hold to and slow her passage. Draco knew what Harry was about to do a moment before he did it; knew what a foolish thing it was to do but also knew that he wouldn't be Harry _or_ Salazar if he had not done it.

And to be truthful, he probably would have done the same in Harry's place. So all he could do was hang on to the vision and hope with all his might as Harry braced himself and caught Evans' hand as she came hurtling past; her shoes ending up only a couple of inches from the opening of the hole.

A laugh. "I don't think so, boy." And his/Harry's eyes whipped up to look at an unchanged, undisturbed Voldemort, still sitting on his throne. "This is just too . . . interesting a chance to get rid of you both." A wave of his wand, and one of the pavement stones lifted slowly, then came flying through the air to impact with considerable force against Harry's right side.

Harry doubled over, his grasp on Lucia's hand loosened- _Doesn't hurt nearly as badly as the Smeltings stick_ -Draco thought he heard Harry think, half amused, half pained. In such a position, he was unable to stay properly braced against the now-gale-strength winds and slid ever closer.

Just as he was about to be swallowed, he raised his head and looked in the direction of Hogwarts. Still unconscious of anything but the vision he was wrapped up in, Draco did not notice himself turning to face Harry's direction. _:I'm sorry, Draco.:_ Another heartbeat, and he was gone.

Back at Hogwarts, Draco screamed as his bond to Harry stretched . . . grew thinner . . . stretched further . . . but _did not break_. He reached out blindly, as if by doing so he could catch his distant bondmate's hand. " _Nooooo!_ "

* * *

He hit the ground with a thump, remaining doubled over for quite some time due to the pain in his side-he would not be surprised if he got at least a fractured rib out of this little . . . adventure-and, primarily, to the pain in his head, as the headache induced by his proximity to Voldemort faded but the agony as his bond came the closest to breaking it ever had quickly made up for such lost ground. And then some.

When even that had faded to a (barely) bearable throb, he reluctantly stood and took stock. _I'm . . . alive._ That was actually something of an accomplishment, considering that he had _no_ idea what that hole was supposed to do. A quick look around established the fact that Lucia was nowhere near him; thus either she had moved on already, or the hole had done something entirely different to her.

Either way, there was really nothing he could do at this point. He slowly turned, meaning to go a full circle, but ending up stopping about halfway through. He smiled as he stared up at the castle, a few lights (but not many) still shining from some of its many windows. _At least now I know where I am._

Walking instead of running or even jogging in deference to his sore right side, it took him a bit longer than he expected to reach the castle. Looking off to the side, he frowned briefly when he noticed Hagrid's hut had looked to have a candle flickering and smoke was definitely rising from the chimney. Everyone knew that Hagrid was away, though few knew where (Jamie suspected, but did not know for sure, that the half-giant was probably off contacting his mother's side of the family for Dumbledore), and that Ms. Figg preferred to keep rooms up in the castle proper; the cabin should have been abandoned.

Considering, Jamie finally shook his head. He was tired, sore, mute, and probably not thinking too well. Definitely not in any shape to confront possible trespassers if he didn't have to. Besides, he didn't _think_ the wards would let in anyone actively hostile to Hogwarts-not without Dumbledore's knowledge and permission.

So he turned back, continued up the steps and into the Great Hall, now dark and deserted. _Huh. Looks like I missed the rest of the party. Ah, well._ Reaching a certain split in the corridor, he stood there thinking for a moment. _Gryffindor Tower, or Draco's room?_

Draco's room was closer. And if-as he suspected-the blond really _had_ somehow been watching the disastrous scene through his eyes, he'd want to know what happened ASAP. Even if he _did_ go up to Gryffindor Tower, Draco would probably come up there and drag him away the moment he realized that Jamie had returned. Besides, he really wasn't in the mood for the stifling heat of the Tower, anyway.

Reaching the familiar door, he touched the appropriate corner of the door (useful as Draco rarely remembered to tell him when he changed the password, which he did nearly every day; doubly useful as the silencing spell showed no signs of wearing off), walked in, shut the door, and kicked off his shoes without really thinking about it; solely on the force of habit. Rubbing his eyes, he walked the few more steps necessary and collapsed onto the bed.

_. . . I wonder how much sleep I can get before Luce' wakes me and starts demanding answers . . ._

Carefully rolling over to lie on his left side, he closed his eyes with a finality that said without words that there was _no way_ they were going to open again until morning, reached one hand up to twine in the soft hair of his partner-a tactile comfort necessary to soothe from him some of the continued ache in his heart and mind at the terribly stretched state of their bond, and one that would, in addition, annoy said blond tremendously-and, with a small smile on his face, surrendered himself to oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4 June 2003


	15. Basilisks and Other Slytherin Matters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other things I still remember: How bitter I was on that trip about not getting to read OotP yet. :D And to make matters worse, the day after it was due to arrive, I was scheduled to go on a Girl Scout trip. 
> 
> Which of course means I read as much as I possibly could the night it arrived, and then made a deal with my fellow scouts that if I could ignore them and finish it in the car, I'd lend it to one of them next. 
> 
> (Also, wow I haven't thought about leet-speak in _years_. XD) 
> 
> ===
> 
> *sigh* Order of the Phoenix is out, and I haven't read it yet. *mournful look* I guess this is what I get for ordering the British version and then getting dragged away on a family vacation to the back end of no where (in a hotel, incidentally, that decided that our dial-up access number did not exist) until today. And then I find out that .uk isn't planning on delivering it until Saturday. AARGH! *goes into deranged ax murderer mode*
> 
> Then again, it did give me lots of time to write, which I'm sure you all approve of . . . :P
> 
> Soo . . . despite the fact that I have not yet read OoTP-a situation, I assure you, that I plan to rectify soon-I suppose now is time for the infamous author's note, detailing how I have, after long and angsty nights, decided to discontinue writing this story, as it has now been entirely invalidated by the real fifth book-although I might be persuaded to take it back up if I get enough reviews pleading at me to do so.
> 
> Hah. Double hah.
> 
> Let's look at this logically. My angsty nights were over starting the story, back in September or so-around the time there were rumours placing the release date of the fifth book as anywhere between the end of September and the Apocalypse. When I finally gave in and started writing, I did so knowing full well that the time was rapidly coming that the real fifth year would be revealed, and that, especially with the speed at which I write, there was no way I would have finished the story by then.
> 
> As witnessed by the fact that this story is fifteen chapters, a little less than three hundred fifty pages long, the outcome of those hours of angst was simple: I decided I didn't care. This was not meant to be a story reflecting in any way what I thought would actually happen in the fifth book; if it had been, I would have titled it Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, like the other fifty billion stories out there with that title. This was meant to be my candy story, here for no other reason than to give me an excuse to have fun and mangle what clichés I could.
> 
> I'll probably get a few fewer reviews now: most of my old friends, those of you who are well-acquainted with this story, will stay, but there will be fewer idle wanderers-those, I am sure, will flock instead to the flood of sixth-year stories that are/will be soon coming out. But since when have I ever been in this solely for the reviews? They're nice, and I admit they sometimes give me that extra edge to get a story written just that little bit faster . . . but guilt over approaching/passing my self-imposed deadline works just as well.
> 
> Soo . . . yeah. In conclusion, now that a certain family vacation is over, I ain't goin' nowhere. You have my full permission to expect the next chapter out within three weeks-or perhaps, just perhaps, even sooner. But don't count on it. I do have seven hundred (or so) page book to slog through once or twice first, you know. ;)
> 
> On a slightly more normal note, the disclaimers: Harry Potter, Severitus' Challenge, Monty Python, whatever random ancient badly translated video game that was, If you want to dance with me (or whatever that stupid song's name is), More Than a Woman (Yay Bee Gees!), and don't belong to me.
> 
> Oh, and if anyone wants to correct my 1337, please do. I am not a 1337 h4x0r, sadly, although I am friends with several-so, in consequence, I am far more adept at reading 1337 than writing it.
> 
> *deep breath out* Now that all that is over with, on with the show!

_Your mother sucks eggs._

_Your father smells of elderberries._

_411 j00r b453 r b310ng 2 u5._

_Oh yeah?_ _You and what army?_

_It's gotta be rock and roll music if you want to dance with me._

_I'm lonely. Hold me._

_More than a woman, more than a woman to me~_

_1337 h4x0r. ph33r |\/|3._

This was not working. His back hurt, his head hurt, his heart hurt, and the bottom of his robe was absolutely soaked in . . . he really did not want to know. _Oh, yeah, let's build the entrance in a_ girl's bathroom _, Luce'._ He mocked. _After all, who would ever think to look there?_

_That's just bloody fine, except for, I don't know, the fact that there's an ugly whiny crybaby ghost inhabiting said bathroom; one who seems to think flooding all the toilets is an appropriate response to all her problems!_

He took a deep breath, wiping his face with his hand in an effort to calm himself. _Okay. Just_ once _more, and then I'll give up._

Another deep breath. Just like all the other times, he composed himself, reaching for the memory of the time Sal' had spent trying in vain to teach him, poised himself and hissed.

_Sasquatch, won't you come on down? Shed your furry coat, and let the sun shine in. The door is OPEN, come on in~_

It was a rather longer hiss than usual, and then, to his considerably surprise, the passageway opened itself near the _middle_ of the . . . phrase, he supposed it had been.

_Oh well. No one's perfect._

Butterflies fluttering in his stomach, he stood, and stepped forward.

* * *

"Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my bed?"

Jamie rubbed his head where he had hit the ground suddenly and glared upwards. For a single, highly disconcerting moment, he was under the impression that he was looking in a mirror. "I could ask the same-what are _you_ doing in Draco's room?" He shot back.

Or . . . well, he _meant_ to. When no sound came from his mouth, the events of the previous night-and, incidentally, an echo of the pain from his overly stretched bond with Draco and the full force of the ache in his side-came rushing back. He winced.

The boy who looked eerily like him leaned forward. "Can. You. _Hear_. Me."

Jamie glared. _Yes. I. Can._ But being silently snide would not help his situation. He pointed at his throat.

"Oh, you're mute?" The boy asked. "I'm. So. Very. Sorry." He said in a slightly louder voice.

_Even if I were_ really _mute, I would not also be deaf._ Jamie could feel his irritation growing. He twitched his wand off the gauntlet and into his hand, then pointed _that_ at his throat.

The other tilted his head sideways a little bit. "You want me to kill you?"

Jamie smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. Could this idiot _possibly_ be any dimmer? He shook his head vigorously and, feeling a bit silly, stood up and got into one of the most generally recognizable dueling positions. He then-before the fool decided that _that_ meant that he wanted to duel-waved his wand, exaggeratedly slowly, mimicking the movements Voldemort had used to cast the silencing spell, pointed to his throat one last time, and crossed his arms belligerently, practically _daring_ the other boy to misinterpret _this_ time.

"Well, why didn't you say so the first time?" The stranger asked, a bit of irritation beginning to creep into his demeanor. Without looking, he reached behind him to the bedside table for his wand and lazily pointed it in Jamie's direction. " _Finite Incantatum._ "

"Thank you." And indeed, Harry was absurdly pleased to hear his own voice again. _I better watch out for myself . . . or risk turning into Lockhart._ He quipped to himself, before turning back to the matter at hand. He scowled at the person still sitting on the bed. "Now that I can speak, would you mind telling me just _what_ , exactly, you are doing in Luce's room? I'm surprised he hasn't come back and kicked you out himself yet."

"I would not mind," the stranger replied evenly, "except for the fact that I have no idea who 'Luce' is, and certainly no clue as to why he would suddenly possess the room that I have inhabited for several months now." His eyes narrowed. "Now it is my turn. Who are you and what are you doing in my room?" He paused. "Or even, for that matter, in the room of this 'Luce' person you spoke of."

He eyed Jamie warily. "You're not . . . lovers . . . are you?" The tactile memory whispered across his skin, briefly, of waking up to find another body snuggled against his; a foreign hand entangled in his hair. Doubly foreign, for he could not remember the last time someone had been that close to him. Perhaps, when he had been a small child, he had slept so close to other orphans, in an effort to conserve warmth, but not within recent memory-even before coming here to Hogwarts, he had early on become the . . . uncanny . . . one; the one few wanted to have anything to do with, even before he had built these icy barriers around his soul.

In a rare moment of carelessness, Jamie did not stop to think of possible reasons that this room might legitimately be home to another, nor consider the consequences of that possibility. "I'm Harry Potter." Then, registering the last remark, he sighed, petitioning the ceiling. "Why is it that even someone who only knows our _names_ thinks that the two of us are involved? He's my _friend_. He just offered his room as a safe haven to me because he knows how . . . stifled . . . I sometimes feel in Gryffindor Tower."

"Oh. Good." The stranger relaxed-at least as much as it seemed he ever did, for there was a sort of of unconscious wary alertness that clung to him even then. "Wait. You're a _Gryffindor_? _And_ a Potter? And you're friends with a Slytherin prefect?!"

A sheepish grin pulled at Jamie's lips. "It's . . . a long story." He tilted his head. "You know my name, but I still don't know yours."

The other boy tossed sleep-touseled black hair away from green eyes at least as vivid as Jamie's own with a laugh and a mock-abashed look on his face. "Oh, right. Excuse my manners-or lack thereof." He held out a hand. "Pleased to meet you, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle."

* * *

She landed on her back with a thud hard enough to bring a hint of stars to her eyes. There was a safe enough feel to the place, and she trusted her feelings enough, that she waited until the majority of the stars had receded before attempting to sit up. The sight that met her eyes, however, made her briefly wish that she had remained lying down.

It was a large, sprawling building; hundreds of lights glinted at her merrily through as many windows. A building that she knew better even than Hogwarts, for she had grown up with its idiosyncrasies. _Looks like Father is entertaining tonight,_ came the idle thought, grimly-for she had heard rumours of what her father's preferred style of entertainment was.

The anger appeared- _How_ dare _he?_ She did not expect that her disappearance (probably described as 'death' to the public and his Lord) would be any source of restraint, but she had thought that the death of his only son and heir might deter him from such . . . fervor.

Then the common sense that she admitted she was sometimes in short supply of abruptly reared its head, beating back the torrent of anger and bitterness that had overcome her upon sight of her old home. How did she know that this was her world? The portal could have done _anything_ , after all, from transporting her home to stranding her in yet another place that was too similar, yet far too bewilderingly different.

There was only one way to find out, really. Briefly, she wished for her Invisibility Cloak, or even Jamie's . . . but, as she had pointed out to him, it seemed such a long time ago, Gryffindor or not, she _could_ sneak when she had to. And the process was simplified by the fact that she knew all-or at least most-of the secret entrances to Malfoy Manor.

She drifted closer to the manor, conscious of a certain lingering stiffness from her fall and a dull throb a little below her left shoulder-blade, where the object that had originally knocked her off-balance and towards the portal had hit. As she got closer, she aimed herself towards the vaulted windows that looked down into the ballroom-they would give her a hint as to where and when she had ended up. If she saw Draco . . .

But she did not. She _did_ see her father, and the cut of the robes worn by the guests was fairly modern, so it seemed likely that she was at least in the same time period. Yet . . . this seemed like a very _ordinary_ ball, the sort that her parents had given every now and again for as long as she could remember-the sort that, once she was old enough to behave, she had always been brought along to. This was not one of those hidden revels that had gone on behind locked doors, the events that sometimes, the only reason she realized they were happening was when her father was away-not only from her, but from Draco-for a significant length of time, yet not on a trip . . . and sometimes, just occasionally, when he returned he still smelled faintly of blood.

Sighing lightly, she settled herself into a sitting position, back leaning against the wall, for a slightly longer wait. Tapping the stone, she whispered an eavesdropping spell that her brother had taught her . . . it seemed a lifetime ago.

"I'm sure you're quite sick of hearing this by now, sir, but I must offer my condolences as to the loss of your former heir."

"Quite." That was her father's voice, at its most frostily displeased. She had been subject to that tone more than most, but it never quite lost its hold over her.

Nor, it seemed, over the other man unfortunate enough to be speaking to him. Yet he was either braver or more insensitive than most, for that tone only shook him, instead of putting him off entirely. "And . . . er . . . congratulations, of course. On your new heir."

_A new heir?!_ In her shock, Lucia almost lost control of the spell. _Mother_ told _me that something had gone wrong with Oniisan's birth . . . that she_ couldn't _have another child . . ._

"I congratulate you on your bold move." A new voice, dryly. "Only you, Lucius, could get away with foisting your illegitimate offspring off on society as your legitimate heir-especially so shortly after both others . . . mm . . . _disappeared_ , shall we say?"

"Ah, but young Angelus is entirely legitimate." The ice had mostly disappeared from her father's voice, replaced by something approaching humor; he also sounded exceedingly smug. "I married his mother before she gave birth to him, after all."

All three laughed. Sick to her stomach, Lucia cut the eavesdropping spell. This _was_ her father, her world. She knew it, deep in her bones, yet the thought brought her none of the elation she had been expecting. Perhaps, once she got back to Hogwarts, she would feel differently. Before that, though, she had a few . . . things to gather, for this time, she would _not_ be coming back.

* * *

She turned around, panning the room one last time. Was there anything else that she would regret leaving? She had her trunk, her broom, her Invisibility Cloak . . . the glass dragon figurine that Draco had given to her as a thirteenth birthday present . . .

She winced, waiting for the familiar rush of pain that thoughts of her brother always brought; it was there, as it had been earlier that night, a pale shadow of the usual flood and easy enough to ignored; overlaid was Parvati- _sad eyes/fingers touching her hair gently/soothing/"I know"_ -and Ron- _comforting arms/not Weasley/_ never _Weasley/too foolish to have it seen before/"I'm here, Harry"_.

Now the tears she swallowed were for an entirely different reason. _I never knew . . . never saw . . . I was never truly there, too busy yearning for_ this _. This pitiful, broken life of mine that is lived on borrowed time._

What was there left for her here?

Only one thing more.

* * *

The walk was a long one, down to where the wards of the manor finally ended, to where it was safe to call the Knight Bus. They gawked, until she explained that it was a costume for a party a friend was holding-for she was once again the dark elf named Shadow. After that, they accepted her "Hogsmeade, please." and the fare that she dug out of the coin that she had kept in her room and she accepted her cup of hot chocolate-for she hadn't had the heart to refuse, and the warmth was a pleasure, even if she had never particularly liked the taste of chocolate.

The walk up from Hogsmeade was even longer, especially as the night wore on and she dearly wished for nothing other than a warm, soft bed. At one point she stumbled, twisting her ankle just enough to make it throb unpleasantly. A bitter wind blew, and she wished she had taken the hidden passage-but the Shrieking Shack was still as boarded up from the outside as ever, and Honeydukes' had closed long before she arrived.

Matters improved once she was actually inside Hogwarts; not only was there no wind, but she felt more energized and her ankle didn't ache nearly as much; the pain in her shoulder had entirely disappeared. It was almost as if the castle itself were helping her, welcoming her home. Just in case, as she reached her godfather's door, she touched the wall beside it, whispering, "Thank you."

Then touched her hand to the well-hidden identification pad, after returning to her original state. She didn't _think_ her glamour had been strong enough or detailed enough to change her fingerprints, but it didn't hurt to be sure. The door slid open.

He was fast asleep, head pillowed on arms and a couple of student essay scrolls that he'd probably claim had always been flattened that way, then proceed to take points off for carelessness. It was something he did sometimes, falling asleep at his desk like that, though not often. Only when he simply could not sleep, for one reason or another, and had in consequence come out to his desk to get 'just a little bit more' work done.

There _was_ something new on his desk, though. She glided closer, picking the small, unassuming box up with her right hand. An equally plain tag had been attached, "For Harry" scrawled in his spidery handwriting. She set all she had brought with her down, picking it up as, unnoticed, tears stung her eyes. _Even when he must believe I'm dead, he still remembered my birthday . . ._

Movements slowed and given a dreamlike quality by her tiredness, she unwrapped the box and drew out of it a strand of gold-a necklace, with a beautifully wrought phoenix charm dangling from the end. On the back, what she recognized as the Snape family seal; as she held the charm in her hands, it tingled. _Protection spells . . . and powerful ones, too, if I can actually sense them._ Her heart went out to the sleeping man; not only had he had to suffer through their deaths, but the knowledge that, if he hadn't waited to give these to them for their sixteenth birthdays, they might have still escaped.

'These' because she was certain that somewhere, he had something similar that he would have given Oniisan for his sixteenth birthday. She slipped it over her head, intentionally sitting very still as the tingling spread all over her body before slowly fading away. _Protection spells for certain_.

An earsplitting wail shattered the silence; she reached down and picked the top bundle up off her pile of stuff. "Ssh . . . ssh, Angelus. It's okay." She soothed, rocking the tiny blond child. "You'll see." _I will not let what happened to Oniisan happen to you . . . nor what very nearly happened to Jamie's Draco._

Movement out of the corner of her eye; still rocking her adoptive half-brother, she turned forward to watch her godfather in all but name stir briefly, then open his eyes.

As he lifted his head from his hands, his eyes focused on her. "Ah." He looked around. "Curious. Usually when I dream of you, it does not seem nearly so clear or . . . realistic. Tell me, is Draco around too? Or will you be the only one to berate me tonight?"

"Why should I do that, when you seem to be doing entirely too good a job of feeling guilty yourself?" She answered with a flash of humour.

He peered closer, turning on his lamp with an absent flick of his wand. "So. Not that sort of dream, then, but a fantasy. You look very different, you know. Like I had always thought you would have, had you been my daughter."

She bit her lip. _Do I really want to know?_ "Are you so sure I'm not?"

He waved his hand. "Oh, well, here in this dream you are, obviously. But in the real world? No . . . probably just as well, considering how guilty I already feel about your death when you're just the sister of my godson. If you were actually my daughter . . ."

_". . . it is my considered opinion that you look at least as much like a Snape as I do, so you're probably your Snape's daughter . . ."_ Jamie's voice echoed through her memory. _His_ Snape had not known of their relation; that much was obvious in his reaction. So the fact that her Snape _believed_ that he could not be her father meant, as Jamie had said, as much or as little as she wanted it to.

"And what is this?" He asked quizzically, looking at the bundle in her lap. "Please tell me it is not yours." He laughed. "Even in this dream, I am ill-equipped to be a father, much less a _grandfather_."

Lucia snorted. "And I'm sure you'd like even less to think about who his father would have to be, with this blond hair." Obviously that hadn't occurred to him before, as now he turned a rather delicate shade of green. "No, Severus, this is . . . my adoptive half-brother, I believe; Angelus Malfoy."

She laid him gently on Snape's desk. "He is . . . a second chance for you to have a child you can care for. Or I will take him to Hogsmeade Orphanage and leave him there; I will _not_ allow him to suffer the same fate as Draco did and I only narrowly escaped, or risk being brainwashed into a good little Death Eater, as Draco could have become, had he been an only child."

"Why me?" He asked, an odd combination of fear and awe chasing each other around his eyes.

"Because . . . you were always there for us. I trust you to raise Angelus as himself . . . and because I think you ought to have a second chance. If I was going to stay here . . ."

He stood abruptly. "You're not leaving? But I haven't woken up yet."

"Didn't you realize? You've been awake this entire time." She almost laughed at the look on his face. "And I _must_ leave; though I only recently figured this out myself. You see, the entire time I was gone, I wished only to return here, to return home. It became a shining ideal in my mind, and I hated anyone who tried to convince me otherwise."

"But now that I'm here . . . only now do I realize how much that place became home to me. How much the people there mean to me." _Parvati . . . Ron . . . and yes, even Jamie, no matter how angry I get at him when he's actually around._

"I won't hold you back." Still, he seemed suddenly far older and more tired. "If you would tell me one thing, though . . . is Lily all right?"

She blinked. "Lily's dead in the other reality, too. The main difference that I can see between here and there is that _that_ Harry is a boy, got left with his Muggle relatives, instead of being adopted by the Malfoys, and is tiresomely famous because everyone knows he's alive instead of thinking he had died." She paused. "Oh, and the fact that, despite also having been sorted into Gryffindor, he has an amazing knack for acting like a manipulative Slytherin _asshole_."

Despite himself, Snape had to hide a smile. "You say that like it's a bad thing." As quickly as that, the smile disappeared. "Another reality? There's actually more than one?" And, as if the question was pulled forcefully from him, "Is the other Harry . . ."

"Your son? As a matter of fact, yes-though both you and he only found out a couple weeks ago." She looked at her hands. "It is Jamie-the other Harry's-opinion that I am also your daughter."

"Don't joke." He snapped, sounding for once like his old self-or the other Snape. "This conversation is opening up enough old wounds as it is. Why didn't you _tell_ me you were still alive? You _are_ , aren't you?"

Now _this_ was different. For once, Lucia actually felt almost like she had the upper hand in a conversation with a Slytherin. Or with Jamie-it was becoming increasingly obvious that Parvati had been right when she noted that Jamie was no longer Gryffindor, really, in anything but name. How had she not seen it? Had she really been so very blind, or had she just not _wanted_ to see?

With an inward shake of her head at how off-track she had gotten, she pulled herself back on. "It's not a joke. You ought to know me better than that." She snapped back, allowing him to see that his intimation that she _would_ joke about something so important to him-to both of them-had hurt. "As for telling you-I _was_ kind of stuck in an alternate reality with no way to get back and no idea how. The fact that I'm back at all is nothing more than sheer accident."

She rolled her eyes, bringing her hand up in front of his face. "And yes, I am alive. Does this look like a ghost to you?" She shrugged. "Father managed to hit me with the Cruciatus . . . but Jamie appeared and rescued me before he could deliver the killing blow."

Snape snorted. "Torture . . . letting the 'game' stretch out beyond what is necessary or even wise . . . how like Lucius." He looked down at the tiny blond bundle still lying on his desk, then back up, expression suddenly oddly uncertain. "You will come back and visit, right?"

"If I can." There was so much more she wanted to say-to try to convince him that she was his daughter, as she was suddenly of sure herself; to tell him exactly how much he meant to her, whether or not he was her biological father . . .

Because it was true. Her father had been there for Draco, but never really for her. When she was lucky (or extremely unlucky), she might receive a glancing look, a casual word or two, but it had always been Severus who had been most like a father to her.

And that was part of the reason she wasn't going to try to convince him to go to the Library and find out the truth once and for all. The other reason was a bit simpler: she knew that disappearing again was going to hurt him; knowing it was his flesh-and-blood _daughter_ -a daughter he already felt he had failed more than once-could only hurt him more.

Yet this reason, once she figured it out, turned out to be almost as simple. She had finally realized that, no matter who had sired her, Severus would always be a father to her. Deep down, it just didn't matter.

But how could she express all this? Unlike her godfather, her brother, or that strange double of herself, she was no silver-tongued Slytherin; she _knew_ that if she tried to tell her godfather what she was thinking, she would just get all tongue-tied and mix him-and likely herself as well-up. So she simply moved around the desk and hugged him. "Goodbye."

Straightening, she looked down at her half-brother. "So? Do I take Angelus by Hogsmeade Orphanage on my way to figuring out exactly how to return to that other reality?"

Severus blinked, deliberately trying to look innocent. It was a mannerism that did not fit him too well-Draco, yes; the Headmaster, of course, but Severus? "Angelus? I have no idea what you're talking about, Harry."

He gestured down at the peacefully sleeping bundle. "By the way, have you met my son? He's about a month and a half old, born September 16th" Angelus' birthday, as near as she could tell, had probably been much earlier in September-he couldn't have been born before she disappeared, for her mother had still been alive and married to her father at that point.

"I thought I'd call him . . ." A pause, as he frowned in thought. "What did you say 'dragon' was in Japanese?"

Lucia blinked. "Ryuu."

"Ryuu." He repeated, rolling the word around on his tongue. "Ryuu Snape. My father would be spinning in his grave-as would Lucius, if we were all so fortunate as to have him be dead." A smirk. "I like it."

A cough. "As I was saying. Harry, I'd like you to meet my son, Ryuu Zaccaria Snape."

* * *

He knocked a third time. "Draco? Please answer . . ." Still nothing. Snape turned to Dumbledore. "I don't think he's here, Albus. He would have answered by now, had he been."

The headmaster frowned. "I assume you have some other way of keeping track of your students." It was not phrased as a question; Dumbledore knew his Potion Master entirely too well for there to be any doubt.

Snape's face was utterly blank; he did not want Dumbledore to know just exactly _how_ stupid that comment had made him feel. _Of course._ He pulled out the scroll that he carried everywhere with him, tapping it and saying the password on autopilot.

Belatedly, he wondered if it was a good idea-he was sure Albus knew Harry had bonded Draco, but did not know if the Headmaster also knew the reason yet. Yet there was no Potter, or even a Snape, on the list-which, he realized (wondering if he would be thinking two steps behind even himself for too much longer . . . perpetually feeling stupid was _not_ a sensation he enjoyed), only made sense, considering that Harry was not wearing the Slytherin badge on which the tracking spell was set, _nor_ had he been Slytherin long enough for the spell to . . . leak . . . onto his skin.

Then again, he thought wistfully, it would be almost worth proving to the Headmaster just exactly how much his precious 'Golden Boy' had been subverted, for a chance to find out for sure that his son was all right.

Ah, but there was the object of his current search.

" _Draco Malfoy - First floor girls' restroom._ " He read incredulously.

Dumbledore suddenly shifted into what Snape fondly referred to as 'barmy old coot' mode. With a happy smile and the ever-present twinkle in his eye greatly strengthened, he clapped his hands twice. "Well, that narrows down the field immensely. Shall we go?"

Three steps later, Snape held up a hand, glad that he had not gone ahead and blanked the sheet, as was his wont. "Wait. It's changing."

Dumbledore politely slowed to a stop, his silence a more effective question than any number of words.

For a few moments-maybe half a minute, probably less-the area beside the name " _Draco Malfoy_ " remained blank-odd, that, as if he had left the restroom (ignoring, for the moment, just exactly what he had been doing in there in the first place . . .), the list should have shown him to be in the " _First floor corridor._ "

Then, under his amazed eyes (and Dumbledore's, as the old coot watched over his shoulder), into that blank space faded the words " _The Chamber of Secrets_ "

* * *

"Master Lucifer, you have returned!"

After having been treated to a flooded bathroom-a _girls'_ bathroom, at that . . . good thing no one else had seen, or he would never have lived it down. He could almost see the insults now: 'greasy old _perverted_ git'-a huge hole where a sink should have been, and a long fall onto a pile of dead rat skeletons, Snape was almost as eager to find Draco as Dumbledore; though admittedly his intentions ran more along the lines of strangulation than interrogation.

Perhaps he'd be lenient and forgive the rat skeletons, as at least they prompted some rather pleasing mental images.

Still, even wet, dirty, and thoroughly disgusted, he was still Slytherin to the bone; upon hearing a voice speaking words that had the possibility of bearing interesting fruit, it was second nature for him to slow down, stop, and hide himself a bit further out of the main range of view in order to eavesdrop.

Distantly, he found it amusing that the Headmaster-thoroughly Gryffindor as he claimed to be-reacted exactly the same way. No wonder people thought he knew everything.

"Indeed I have. It's been far too long, Xia, and I'm sorry for that." Though the first voice was unfamiliar to Snape-and, presumably, to the Headmaster as well-the second was well known; especially belonging as it did to the precise person they were searching for.

"It's okay. I was . . . afraid, Master Lucifer, so very afraid that I'd never see either of you again." The voice was female, alto, but with an oddly husky quality he had never heard before.

"It's Draco, now. Draco Malfoy. And Sal' is known as Harry Potter. Oh, and . . . would you listen to _me_ if I asked you to can the 'Master'?"

Hissed laughter. "I don't know which is more amusing, the thought of a Malfoy and a Potter getting along, or the thought of Master . . . Harry? . . . as being Potter to begin with." Short pause. In a teasing tone, "and no. You ought to know that by now."

"I should, shouldn't I? Oh, it is so _very_ good to see you again, Xia, especially now that Harry has gone off and done some damnfool Gryffindorish stunt and disappeared."

A very loud scraping noise. "The Master has disappeared? Then . . . I assumed he had finally come up with a decent translation spell . . ."

"No, I'm not speaking your language." Draco's voice, for some reason inexpressibly sad. "You are speaking mine."

"I'm . . . dead?" Puzzled. "How? Oh . . . perhaps now I remember. There was that boy . . ."

A rattling sound. "That boy . . . he reminded me so of the Master . . . and I missed him so much . . . but he wasn't. He couldn't have been. He . . . he told me to kill someone not an enemy. And I did! The Master will never forgive me!" The female voice approached hysteria, although Snape only noted that offhandedly, his mind too wrapped up in the possible import of the words themselves.

Soothingly, "Oh, Xia, I wish things had turned out otherwise. That you hadn't had to suffer like this. Yes, you did a bad thing, but I can understand why, and I forgive you. If Harry were here, I know he'd forgive you too." There was a brief moment of silence. "Wait. When the Chamber was opened in second year, I _know_ no one was killed . . ."

The rattling sound, having stopped at some point after the female voice finished her confession, began again. "That . . . yes, now I remember that too. He returned, the boy who reminded me so . . . and he let me back outside this chamber at last. It was the sort of thing the Master did sometimes, remember? But . . . this time there were people around . . . but I didn't kill any of them? Truly?"

"I'm positive. Through a series of lucky incidents, no one was anything worse that petrified."

"I'm so glad . . . none of them were enemies either. But then there came the one _he_ said _was_ an enemy, and I believed him. He had a phoenix with him, and Gryffindor's sword, and I remembered that near the end . . ."

"He was so tiny, too, that little Gryffindor boy. He killed me, I remember now, but I killed him too-I made sure to drive one of my fangs into his arm; nothing can survive my venom for long." She sounded proud.

"Actually, you didn't. I suppose the phoenix healed him in time, because by the time he emerged from here, according to my father, he was a bit bloody, but whole-there were no visible wounds on his body." A laugh. "Oh, don't look so sad. Things would have been a great deal worse off if you _had_ killed him, you know. The Gryffindors needed their little Golden Boy; more importantly, _that_ was Harry."

"I almost killed the _Master_?! But . . . why didn't he say anything? Was he that angry with me, that he doomed me to death without even speaking to me one last time?"

"He didn't remember, Xia. Neither of us did, until recently. He was just a little twelve-year-old boy-child, trained to act far too Gryffindor for his own good, who was confronted with the so-called 'monster' that was about to kill the little sister of his best friend."

"He _can_ still speak, can't he?"

"Yes, and I still can't . . . though evidently I've gotten better at faking it; it only took me nine tries and kneeling in entirely too much toilet water for entirely too long a period of time before I managed to get the stupid door open."

"Why didn't you take the back way, the way you used to?"

A very long pause. "Erm . . . I forgot?"

Snape padded a few steps forward, peeking around the corner into the room itself. As he had suspected, but not really believed, Draco stood near the middle of the room, speaking to what looked like the reanimated skeleton of a gigantic snake. The basilisk; it could hardly have been anything else. If he looked closely, he could see the barest shadow of poisonous green skin stretched, ghostlike, a few inches above the bones; the empty eye sockets contained the hint of what had once been (literally) deadly yellow eyes; one excessively long fang, whole, gleamed even in the relatively low ambient light, while the other was at least half-missing, broken off by something . . . or some _one_.

Dumbledore stepped forward as well, but alas, his sneaking skills were not quite up to Slytherin standards. Either that or he was quite distracted by something. Or perhaps he had meant to be heard-it was sometimes rather hard to tell, with Albus Dumbledore.

Whatever the reason, though, the basilisk's head snapped up, and two ghostly eyes pinned them. "Intruders!" It-she?-hissed.

_Oh crap. What works against the undead again?_ Necromancy had been thought a completely (to pardon the pun) dead art for so long that few Defense Against the Dark Arts (or, for that matter, Dark Arts) classes even bothered to mention the undead.

" _Inferno!_ "

_Oh, right. Fire._ Snape came to the decision that getting out of bed that morning had been an extremely bad one-decision, that is. He no longer felt like he was thinking two steps behind everyone else; three or four at _least_ described the situation much better.

Then again, it seemed that he at least managed to figure out that burning the undead basilisk had been a bad idea before Dumbledore did. Perhaps it was because he knew Draco so much better. The bones of the basilisk flared briefly blue-hot, collapsing into ash, and Draco . . . exploded.

That was really the only good word for it.

" _Xiiiiaaaaaa!_ " He screamed, as his eyes lit up the same shade as, and even brighter than, the fire that had consumed the basilisk's bones only moments before. It was both (presumably) a name, and a summon; he rose a little over a foot into the air as an invisible wind began swirling the ashes up and around him.

The ashes swirled ever faster, until Snape could barely discern Draco's body through the cloud of grey that engulfed him. Without the blue-white light that had spread from his eyes to, slightly dimmer, his entire body, it would have been impossible to see even that much. Then, slowly, the ashes began to form into bands, approaching the point where they would resume the shape they had once held.

_What have we released?_

* * *

"Soo . . . what year is it?"

"19-42." Jamie glared halfheartedly at the other Slytherin. "Nice try."

A smug smirk. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Harry."

This, Jamie supposed, was evidence of just how much he had changed since second year. This Tom Riddle, a fellow fifth-year, was separated by only about eight months from the memory that had taken Ginny Weasley over and forced her to open the Chamber of Secrets; Harry held no illusions that Tom would suddenly change that drastically in the intervening time, he knew that the chances were good to certain that _this_ Tom was Voldemort as well, already.

Yet despite that, he was now a boy the same age-not the impassable gulf that the three years had seemed to the twelve-year-old Jamie had once been-and a fellow Slytherin. There was a . . . familiarity to Tom Riddle that made Jamie feel safe in some obscure way, though he knew better than to trust those feelings.

Still, he had to admit that feeling such a sense of camaraderie with the person who would become his worst enemy (and his 'heir' . . .) was somewhat discomfiting. At least he was old enough (and, he supposed, 'wise' enough . . . for whatever that was worth) now not to be tricked into fearing becoming the next 'Dark Lord'. He hadn't been terribly interested in world domination even as Salazar-though he had to admit that the idea _had_ occurred to him once or twice-and that inclination had developed into a complete distaste as Jamie.

Face it. When even the thought of being Minister of Magic for Britain _alone_ made him feel slightly queasy . . . no, he had quite enough responsibility, thank you, even when it was just the country's _expectations_ ; the thought of actually being responsible for the people themselves . . .

Besides, if Fudge was any example, Jamie was firmly convinced that being the Minister of Magic had an extremely deleterious effect on one's brain and common sense. To the point where he occasionally wondered if Fudge even _had_ one. Either one.

"What's so amusing?" Tom asked.

Oh. He must have been smirking visibly, then. Needed to work on that. "Nothing." And gasped, as the bond-headache, previously having subsided to a level where he could easily ignore it, flared to a full-blown migraine. Along with the headache, the thin white scar that ran along his vein on his right arm flared violently to blue-white light, a similar, slightly shorter line on his left echoing more dimly-for that had been where Salazar and Lucifer had first bonded each other.

Tom was staring; it occurred to him that there could hardly be a worse person to witness whatever was happening.

Then that thought and all others seeped away as he saw Draco, surrounded by the same light that currently flared from his bond-scars, _knew_ where he was, and started to run.

Later, he'd take the time to be amazed at the speed he ran, at the blue-white barrier he threw up-wandlessly, even!-to block Tom Riddle out of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom (which, actually, wasn't yet. He wondered, distantly, if Myrtle was hiding out in one of the stalls _right now_? But dismissed it, as that thought too flowed away); and take the time to regret the fact that the barrier did not block sound or (for the most part) sight . . . he would never quite figure out if Voldemort had known how to enter the Chamber of Secrets before he so thoughtlessly opened it.

Slide and tumble gracelessly onto the pile of rat skeletons-it had been Lucifer's idea of a joke, if he remembered correctly; the blond had claimed that they suited the ambiance of the outer Chamber far better than any more conventional device to soften the fall. Take a moment to appreciate the fact that the rockfall caused by Lockhart was not yet there to block his way, and skid into the outer Chamber itself.

Through time and space, as soon as he stepped into the Chamber, the headache disappeared and he felt, briefly, once again whole; a ghostly image of Draco appeared that he could see with his physical eyes as well as mental. The blue-white that was the color of Draco's personal power-or that had been Lucifer's, and it seemed that this, at least, was exactly the same between the two-crackled in an angry aura around the blond, pulling the ashes together in a far more advanced Necromantic spell than he should ever be attempting in so uncontrolled a fashion as it seemed he was.

The ashes . . . where had they come from in the first place?

* * *

Under Severus and Dumbledore's watchful eyes, with a final flash of power that forced both to look away, if only briefly, the basilisk once more snapped visibly into existence.

_"Lucifer, you fool! What the hell do you think you're doing?!"_

Only a few steps in front of the two watchers, Harry faded in-yet not entirely; much like a more colorful version of a ghost, they could see through him to the opposite wall.

The glowing being-no longer even recognizably Draco-turned its head in their direction. "They killed her, Sal'."

_"No. I killed her. Ah, Xia . . . can you ever forgive me?"_

"It is I who cannot be forgiven!" Only just barely this side of a shriek, the basilisk replied, writhing in the air. "I _killed_ , Master!" This time, there was no lengthy explanation, as if she expected all that had been said before to be tacitly understood.

And perhaps it was. _"That, too, may be partially my fault."_ The ghostly Harry replied thoughtfully. _"But either way . . . either way, of course I forgive you, Xia."_ One hand reached out, as if to touch the ashy apparition. _"Voldemort has fooled far less trusting individuals than you, little one."_

"Thank you, Master. I am sorry you had to kill me . . . but I would not have had it be anyone else." Sweetly, all the hysteria and despair dissipated by a simple gesture of forgiveness. "Love you."

_"Always have. Always will."_ His son's voice sounded choked as he took another step forward and the basilisk lowered its-No. _Her_ ashy head to gently taste his outstretched hand with her long tongue.

As if it had been some sort of signal, Harry faded away once more and the basilisk, somehow making the movement graceful, fell to the floor, loosing shape as she fell, until what hit the ground was mere ash.

And Draco, no longer glowing and now a more or less uniform grey, with pale streaks down his face where, perhaps, tears had fallen, collapsed to his knees, hands reaching blindly to either side to grasp what ashes he could. "Why?"

Dumbledore's posture reminded Snape of the way he had looked the previous June-only four months earlier . . . it seemed far longer than that . . .-as they confronted the false Moody. "Release him now, Salazar Slytherin." His wand pointed unerringly at Draco's heart.

Snape blinked. Dumbledore couldn't _honestly_ think . . .

"What the hell are you talking about, you demented old coot?" Draco demanded, at his rudest-which, unless there was a handy victim around and he was in the mood for a little psychological torture, was a sure sign that he was tired. "Severus? Do _you_ know what he's talking about?"

"That's Professor S-" Dumbledore began angrily.

"Leave it, Albus. He _is_ my godson, too, as you well know." What was Albus' problem? Even in anger-which, in the truest tradition of Gryffindors, tended to send him off the deep end; a hundred-odd years (and, Snape suspected, a bit too much power for any bystanders' good) had just taught him to keep better reins on the temper and allowed him to develop a nearly divine store of patience-Albus never, as far as he knew, acted quite this . . . erratically.

"Draco, I think he believes that you have been possessed by the spirit of Salazar Slytherin."

The blond's eyebrows drew down as he tilted his head. "Why on earth would he think that?"

A snort. "Where should I begin? There's the fact that you know where the Chamber of Secrets is, the fact that you were able to open it-which means that you can speak Parseltongue-that little light show you were putting on just now, the Necromancy . . . or what I assume is Necromancy, at least . . ."

"First: I'm not a Parselmouth. I just got lucky. Second: the 'light show', as you so quaintly put it, _might_ be a decent reason, except for the fact that his aura is emerald green-matches his eyes-not blue-white. Third: what in the world does Necromancy have to do with Salazar Slytherin?"

"It is an extremely Dark Art, forbidden and thankfully lost. There are many books that recall tales of Slytherin leading armies of the undead." Dumbledore broke in, his wand still not wavering. Snape was beginning to get ever so slightly nervous. Necromancer, possessed (though he still thought that theory was a load of crock), or whatever, Draco was his godson, one of his Slytherins _and_ soulbonded to his son; three good reasons when he only really needed one to do all he could (within reasonable limits) to protect the blond boy.

Yet he also owed Dumbledore quite a bit . . . it was a life-debt, if only a symbolic instead of true and binding one. Both for that reason, and simply because Dumbledore, even at his age, was probably at least twice as powerful as him, trying to face the aging headmaster was _not_ , needless to say, an appealing thought.

"Stories, according to you, say he _led_ undead armies. That doesn't necessarily mean he _raised_ them. Sal'-azar Slytherin was no more a Necromancer than . . . than Severus!" A searching look that turned contemplative-an entirely new reason for Snape to feel uncomfortable-but (Snape suspected, thankfully) Draco said no more on that subject, instead attempting to lever himself to his feet.

Dumbledore snapped even tenser, if that was possible; Snape's attention was divided between worry at how wobbly and pale, even through the concealing ashes, Draco looked, and trying to figure out what it was that had triggered his curiosity about that last statement. Other than the look-that was something he'd get explained by the source. Later.

Pieces came together.

_His way of speaking as if he had known Slytherin._

_His certainty that Slytherin had_ not _been a Necromancer._

He _was a Necromancer . . . but he was also Draco. There was no doubt about that-after watching the boy grow up, he knew Draco almost as well as he knew himself (which was not, necessarily, always saying that much)._

_Slytherin_ led _undead armies . . . but . . ._ Draco? _raised them?_

_"Master."_

_Slytherin was_ -and still is- _a Parselmouth._

_Lucifer. Salazar._ Sal' _._

Draco was seriously listing. "I had forgotten . . . how much spontaneous Necromancy . . . took out of a person."

And as he crumpled, Snape's eyes widened impossibly large, as all the pieces snapped into place.

_My son?!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 23 June 2003


	16. Daggers and Mirrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit sad, seeing my stated intentions to continue the story in the context of the number of chapters that remain before college and my lack of a clear plan for the story became too much for me and it went on hiatus. I did mean every word at the time, though. 
> 
> ==
> 
> *blinks* Okay, first let me clear something up that has evidently worried far too many of you. That rant last chapter was meant to be a mimicry of the sort of note I might have written if I were actually planning to discontinue the story. But I'm not!
> 
> You hear that? No abrupt discontinuation for you! You'll be saddled with me for a looong time yet, methinks.
> 
> After that, the next topic I feel I ought to address is the timing. I know I said three weeks, but that's because I'm stupid; I ought to know by now that the only thing I seem to be able to do with deadlines is break them. -_- I do aim at getting chapters to this story out roughly every three weeks (though that may be extended once I hit college this August . . . it's hard to tell yet how great my workload will be), but I don't always make it. Generally I start feeling guilty enough after the three weeks that if I don't make the three-week deadline, it's out within a month . . . but that's not always guaranteeable, either. Especially when I persist at getting struck with writer's "sit-down-at-the-computer-and-suddenly-be-unable-to-string-together-a-single-coherent-thought" at inconvenient moments.
> 
> Despite that, thank you all for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as you have all the ones before it.
> 
> Oh, and Harry Potter et al. does not belong to me. I own Professor Ortega, though!

"Mr. Riddle, would you care to explain to me what it is you are doing kneeling outside a girl's bathroom at . . ." The auburn-haired man checked his watch, ". . . approximately one in the morning?"

"No?"

The professor then caught sight of the body lying prone on the floor beside the Slytherin prefect. "Or perhaps why you've been experimenting with Duplication Charms when you know that you are not supposed to be practicing such magic outside of class?"

Tom blinked, but still managed to catch the opportunity and run with it. "But professor, I am only striving to improve my magical knowledge." Looking innocent. "After all, I feel like I have so much to catch up on, even now . . ." He trailed off, betting that, as they always did, Dumbledore would take the bait.

Sure enough, the man's face softened. "I know it's been hard for you, Tom, growing up in an entirely Muggle environment, but it also gives you a very valuable perspective that not many other wizards understand. Besides, you are the top of your class-I hardly think you need to study any more than you are already."

Tom flashed a quick, insincere smile, ducking his head to acknowledge the complement. _Top of my class is not enough . . . not for a half-blood in Slytherin. You old fool._ "Yes sir." A deliberate pause. "I . . . there seems to be something wrong with . . . it." _Remember, Dumbledore thinks Harry's just a clone . . ._ "I was hoping that Professor Ortega would be able to tell me what went wrong."

"Well then." The auburn-haired Transfiguration professor clapped his hands, batty expression once more adorning his face. "The least I can do is help you. Especially as you're not supposed to be using magic in the corridors . . ." Had he . . .? Yes, Tom concluded, carefully hiding his expression of disgust, Dumbledore _had_ , in fact, _winked_ at him. " _Mobilicorpus_."

_All right, Harry, please don't wake up before we get to Ortega's office . . ._

* * *

Arturius Ortega, Professor of Charms for the previous thirty years and Head of Slytherin for nearly as long propped his chin on his folded hands. "I see you've been experimenting again, Tom. If this is supposed to be a Duplication Charm, it is surprisingly shoddy effort . . . for you especially."

The black-haired prefect shot a look at the door before turning his attention back to the _nearly_ identical figure decorating the couch. "It's not. _He's_ not. His name is Harry Potter, and I _think_ he comes from the future."

Ortega raised an eyebrow. "If I didn't know you, Tom, I'd be seriously tempted to accuse you of lying. How would this 'Harry Potter' person have suddenly appeared from the future . . . and, for that matter, how do you know for certain it's the future he's from?"

Tom shrugged, shifting Harry's feet so that he could sit on the couch as well. "I don't know how or why he appeared-just that he showed up in my bed at some point late last night or early this morning."

Ortega's lips twitched. _That_ would have been an interesting scene to be a fly on the wall during.

"As for him being from the future . . . well, I don't have any definite proof, but I know he's not from now, and he seemed to recognize my name, so it makes more sense that he would be from the future than the past."

The student in question stirred, then sat bolt upright. "Lucifer, you moron!" Shook his head.

"What year is this?" Tom inserted swiftly.

"199-bloody hell, Riddle, would you stop doing that?!"

Tom smirked.

"Might I ask what you're doing here?" Ortega interjected smoothly, after overcoming his brief moment of shock at seeing the boy awake. With his green eyes open, he now looked even _more_ like Tom.

Harry winced, and rubbed his forehead. "Getting a headache, evidently . . . bloody stupid Lucifer . . . going off and indulging in some bloody stupid light show the moment I'm not around . . . going to get himself expelled . . ."

"Lucifer is his friend, presumably a fellow fifth-year, and the Slytherin prefect that supposedly inhabits my room in 199-what year did you say?"

"Oh, shut up." Harry grumbled.

"He's a Gryffindor, can you believe it?" Tom noted to his Charms professor. "Of course, being a Potter, he could hardly be anything else, but still . . . the Sorting Hat wasn't sniffing anything funny the day you put it on, was it?" The latter part addressed to Harry.

A tired smirk. "No, I'm just too stubborn for its tastes." Then he suddenly jumped to his feet. "The Sorting Hat. That's it! My god, I can't believe I didn't think of it before . . . stupid, stupid, stupid . . ."

"Think of what?"

Harry shot a glance at the professor. "Nothing, really. Just . . . I forgot about something until just now." A brief nod. "Nice to meet you, professor; thanks for dragging me someplace a bit more comfortable, Riddle, and sorry for collapsing on you like that. Now, if you will excuse me?" He slipped out the door.

Slytherin student and Head of House exchanged Looks.

"Follow him?"

"Of course."

* * *

"In the name of Slytherin, I request entrance into thy chambers, O guardian."

The gargoyle moved to the side, and Jamie grinned triumphantly. _Thank goodness we programmed that in . . . I doubt Headmaster Dippet has the same penchant as Dumbledore for making the password some obscure Muggle sweet._

He hummed softly as he ascended the stairs to the Headmaster's chambers. It was so _obvious_ , he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it. After all, he had pulled Gryffindor's sword out of the hat himself; how had it never occurred to him that he might have-and, indeed, had-hidden his daggers in the same place.

Speaking of Gryffindor . . . he tilted his head upward. Sure enough, there he was, the top portrait on the wall-the first Headmaster of Hogwarts. "Hey, God', fancy meeting you here!"

"Salazar?!" The portrait sounded shocked. "What the hell are _you_ doing here? We kicked you out, you sorry bastard!"

Now whistling cheerfully, Jamie flipped Gryffindor's portrait a certain finger. "I've come to retrieve my daggers. And it's the 1940s now, you know. I think any restraining order has long since died an unmourned death."

"I know very well what year it is." His arch-nemesis muttered, sounding vaguely sulky. "I'm a portrait, not deaf and blind." Jamie walked over and picked up the Sorting Hat. "What I want to know is what _you_ are doing here, when I know damn well you only survived me by a year or two at most."

"I was just absolutely devastated by your loss." Jamie murmured, making sure to add in a noticeably mocking lilt. Practically shoving Gryffindor's face in it, in fact-wanted to make sure the man caught on, as Gryffindors are notorious for ignoring or not noticing subtleties. Never let it be said that they didn't learn from the best.

There was actually more truth than he would have expected to those words. Despite being enemies, they had originally been friends, if never terribly good ones: he had felt closer to Lucifer the day they met for the first time than he ever felt towards Gryffindor. But the fact remained that they had fought with each other, as well as against; that sort of shared experience could hardly _not_ create a bond of sorts.

Striving, as always, to have the last word, as he shoved the Sorting Hat onto his head for-what was it now? The third time? Fourth?-he added, "And it's called reincarnation. Dumbass."

* * *

When they came upon the open passage to the Headmaster's office, professor and student exchanged another Look. "This Harry Potter certainly knows his way around." Tom admitted. "Getting into the Headmaster's office without knowing the password . . . that's pretty impressive."

"A bit _too_ impressive for my peace of mind." Ortega mused sourly. "We still don't know what it is that he's after."

"Answer me, you flea-bitten mongrel!" Came a roar from upstairs within the office itself. The two Slytherins sped up.

"Oh, calm down, God'. Remember, the doctors warned you about your high blood pressure . . . all this excitement isn't at all good for you."

"I remember no such thing!"

"Ah, yes, your memory's going . . . yet another sign of old age."

A gusty sigh. "Oh, never mind. Why do I even bother trying to beat you at this sort of word game?"

The two reached the doorway just in time to watch Harry take two medium-length silver daggers out of the hat and slide them into what appeared to be forest-green dragonhide bracers. With a twist of his wrists, the daggers abruptly disappeared. "Because you're a _Gryffindor_. You practically _live_ off lost causes."

"Er . . . aren't you a Gryffindor too, Harry?" Tom asked uncertainly. _God is a Gryffindor? Aw, crap . . ._

The black-haired time-traveller seemed to become entirely engrossed in brushing invisible lint off his sleeves. "That's . . . different." He muttered.

There was a crow of laughter. " _You?_ In _Gryffindor_?! Wait'll I tell Helga and Rowena about this . . ."

"You just _had_ to go off and give him ammunition, didn't you." Harry pinned Tom with a betrayed look. "Now I'll _never_ hear the end of it."

_Helga and Rowena? Oh . . . God must be short for Godric._ Tom found himself feeling distinctly relieved that he was not, after all, engaging in an unanticipated religious experience. Especially one in which God was a short-tempered Gryffindor with a bad memory and high blood pressure. "Sorry?"

". . . Are you sure the Sorting Hat didn't break? From being forced to have something like _you_ wearing it?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Actually, I think it rather took to me. I would have gone to Slytherin, but I outstubborned it."

A brief silence. ". . . now, that I suppose I can see. But why? You _know_ the Hat is not supposed to be influenced by students like that."

All of a sudden, Harry seemed to find something _very_ interesting about his toes. "Well . . . I could have gone pretty much either way, at that point . . . _you_ know the Potters, God', they can't _help_ being Gryffindor."

The portrait hooted. "You? A Potter?! Oh, this just keeps getting better! Still, I would have expected your base nature to overcome such paltry genealogical problems. Why did you _want_ to be in Gryffindor, anyway?"

Harry perched himself on the headmaster's desk, ignoring a squawk from the portrait that sounded like an indictment of Slytherins and their general disregard for authority. Swinging his legs, the thud of his heels hitting the desk behind him set up a steady, soft beat. "Despite being born to magical parents, I was raised for ten of the first eleven years of my life with my Muggle relatives-don't you _dare_ say anything, God'."

"I wasn't going to!" Gryffindor protested. "I still think it's hilariously funny that you're a Potter, were raised as a Muggle, and ended up in _Gryffindor_ (even if it raises questions about the quality of my house now . . .), but I _was_ going to show some self-restraint and not say anything."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware you knew the _word_ 'self-restraint', much less how to apply it."

More grumbling about insolent Slytherins too enthralled by the so-called sharpness of their wit to know when to shut up.

"That can be a Gryffindor trait, too, you know. At least Slytherins are more likely to have any wit worth speaking of." A pause. _Crabbe and Goyle?_ "Okay, most of the time."

"Soo . . . are you ever going to tell my why you wanted to be in Gryffindor enough to override the Hat's inclination?"

"I was getting there . . ." Harry replied defensively. "How would you say the rest of the school looks on Slytherin these days, Godric?" His tone and the lapse in his use of the portrait's irreverent nickname showed his seriousness.

"Dark bastards, just like you." Came the cheerful reply.

Harry rubbed his forehead. "I'll let that pass. This time. Well, imagine about fifty years from now; there's no war consuming the world, Muggle and Wizarding alike, but a new Dark Lord has arisen-one that attended this very school as a Slytherin." He smiled mirthlessly. "And enter myself, a clueless eleven-year-old, effectively Muggle-born in all but blood, determined to be strong and to prove myself, so that I would not be forced out of this wonderful world I had only just entered . . . and the man who introduces me to the Wizarding world feeds me some line about how all Dark wizards come from Slytherin."

"Plus, there's also the fact that one of the first Wizarding children I ran into, a Malfoy, was extolling the virtues of Slytherin" A mutter from Gryffindor to the tune of 'no wonder' "while his attitude reminded me greatly of my spoiled Muggle cousin-who is up there alongside Voldemort as one of the people I hate most."

"All right, in that case I suppose I can see why even _you_ would be reluctant to join Slytherin."

"Who?" Tom interrupted, a chill running down his back.

Harry sent him a shuttered glance. "No one. Forget about it."

"No, you said Voldemort, didn't you?"

Harry's gaze was no longer shuttered, but cold, an icy glare that sent chills down Tom's spine once again. "Who else did you think ascended to the position of Dark Lord, Tom Marvolo Riddle?" _He knows!_

Professor Ortega looked from one to the other; from the mysterious stranger who claimed to be a Gryffindor, yet acted far too Slytherin, to the student he had taught for going on five years . . . although, judging from his reaction to what seemed like an innocuous statement, perhaps he knew his Slytherin no better than the stranger.

Slytherins like puzzles, though not quite as fervently as the more scholarly Ravenclaws; yet their definite preference is for puzzles that have a solution. This was most definitely a puzzle, but for the life of him, he could not solve the puzzle these two students presented.

And, being a Slytherin, that inability annoyed the holy hell out of him.

"I take it you're not a fan of . . . him, then, are you?" Tom prodded cautiously.

A sneer. "Hardly." And there was that pause again, the same sort of pause Tom had just used. ". . . _he_ is the reason that, other than my Muggle relations" and here, a look like he had just swallowed something exceedingly nasty "if I dare even dignify them with such a word, my father is the only family I have left."

The boy straightened, and for a moment there was a sense of power, on the order of that possessed by his fellow instructor, Albus Dumbledore, that wafted around him. "But mark my words, _Tom_. I _will_ defeat . . . _him_ , someday. I've escaped from . . . him with my life five times already, but a time _will_ come when he is the one to fall." He ran left thumb along right gauntlet, musingly, though his eyes never left Tom's. "And that time is coming. Soon, I think."

With the motion, a memory returned to Ortega's mind. "What happened to those daggers I saw? Are they invisible now?"

The boy's face lightened enormously; not only was his curiosity going to be satisfied, but it seemed he had defused what had the potential to be quite an explosive situation, as well. In a lightning-quick movement, Harry flicked his left hand, and one of the daggers slid into visibility as the hilt fell into his palm. "In a manner of speaking. It's one of the advantages of these gauntlets."

He offered the dagger to Ortega, politely hilt-first. "Sorry I ran out of the room so quickly earlier, but I've been looking for these for quite some time, and that comment of Riddle's finally shook the memory loose. I don't believe we've been introduced?"

Engrossed as he was in examining the dagger he had been handed, he replied with no more than an absent "Arturius Ortega, Charms." It was, as it had seemed from far-off, silver-though Ortega had no doubt that the silver had been alloyed to create a stronger material; the imprints in the green dragon-hide wrapping the hilt spoke of long use, yet there was not a scratch he could see on the oddly scalloped blades themselves. And, on the pommel, a silver serpent so intricately carved that it almost looked real.

Of course, that illusion was aided by the fact that it had just raised its head and hissed at him, flicking out a small silver tongue and glaring at him with tiny eyes of sparkling emerald. "Stop that." Harry's voice said, annoyed, as he tapped the serpent on the head . . . admonishingly, it seemed. "Sorry, they're not too good with strangers, and they're set to recognize only those of the Slytherin bloodline." Now _that_ was something he never thought he'd catch himself saying . . . made it sound like he was the paternal figure of a Chinese dynasty or something.

"Oh? You're actually _descended_ . . ." Gryffindor interrupted. "Well, I suppose you do look somewhat alike. Still, who would have thought . . . and a _Potter_ . . ."

Harry cast his eyes upwards. "Oh, shut it, why don't you? I'm descended from you, too, in case you were interested."

"Oh, ew . . ." Silence. Then, hopefully, "Hey, does that mean that I can disown you?"

* * *

"Draco? Come on, Draco, wake up . . ."

Snape regarded the still-comatose boy with a large dose of exasperation. Exasperation that soon turned to contemplation as he finally had an idea. "Lucifer!" He barked. "Get up now!"

Well, it provoked a reaction, if not the one he had been aiming for, he admitted as he fell backwards after a large object-relatively soft, so he was forced to tentatively identify it as a pillow-smacked him in the face. Hard. "Salazar Rafael Slytherin, if you don't stop bothering me and let me sleep, I swear I'll-" He stopped around the time Snape finally tore the pillow away from his face. "Erm . . . hi Severus?"

Reluctant amusement. "You know, don't you, that if Voldemort found out that the boy he's been trying to kill for so long is Slytherin . . . reborn, I assume? . . . he'd have a heart attack."

Mischievous grin. "Sounds like it's worth a try, then." Sudden collection, as he realized just what he'd admitted. "Ah . . . I mean . . . I have no idea what you're talking about?"

Snape folded his arms. "That theory might have held more weight if not for the . . . display you engaged in in front of the Headmaster and I two nights ago."

"Two nights? Bugger. I had _really_ forgotten how much that sort of thing takes out of me. Well, that and the fact that Sal' always had a knack for jolting me awake the next morning, whether I was ready or not."

He sighed. "You're not going to let me get out of this with excuses, are you?" Snape didn't even bother to shake his head; a slowly raised eyebrow conveyed all the meaning he needed. "Pity. But I suppose you would have found out eventually."

Draco sighed, straightened into a more proper sitting position on the bed, and held out his head. "Hello. Lucifer Bryn de la Rossi, Necromantic Master, Charms professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and bonded partner to Salazar Slytherin for" a brief flash of humor "a hundred forty-seven years and counting. Well, minus a few minor details such as that thousand-year break and a reincarnation or two."

Eyebrow twitch. "A few _minor_ details, yes . . ." Heavy, of course, with sarcasm. Then a double-take. "You were a teacher here?"

Blithely. "Of course. What, you thought we started the school and then just sat on our hands and let some other poor fools teach? Hardly." His gaze grew thoughtful. "Helga taught Herbology-most teachers of that subject are former Hufflepuffs, I think. Something about its down-to-earth nature, I think . . . Rowena, of course, taught Arithmancy." A roll of his eyes. "Being the Headmaster, Godric didn't teach much of anything-though he cheerfully substituted in just about everything-except Sal's class." An evil grin, as if recalling a decidedly delicious memory.

"And Slytherin . . .?"

Draco grinned, an expression so essentially _Draco_ that he couldn't help but smile back. It helped soothe his fears that, in gaining this mythological figure, he had somehow lost his godson. "Why, Sal' taught Potions, of course. What else?"

* * *

"Where was it?"

Lucia paced down yet another long corridor in the dungeons, only halfway aware of the fact that Severus, holding baby Ryuu, was still following her.

"What?"

Lucia whirled, just barely holding herself back from snapping. It was _not_ , after all, that unreasonable a question. She rubbed at her eyes, willing away the fatigue that was finally creeping up on her. "The Mirror. That's how Jamie found me, so hopefully I can use it to get back." _To return to my new friends, to the people that need me . . . I can't think of anything other than that that would be my deepest desire._

She had her friends here, too . . . but it wasn't the same. Here she had had her brother, and had been so wrapped up in him that the friendships she had formed had never been nearly as deep or meaningful as the ones she had formed, all unknowingly, even in so short a time, in that other universe.

Yet . . . did the people in the other universe truly need her, or was she only flattering herself? She was a mediocre student, and (in part due to the disorientation and her brother's recent death) an even worse friend. Parvati, she knew, liked her well enough; she was perhaps even her best friend, as she had been to Lucia. But did she _need_ her? Probably not.

_But I need her . . . and Ron . . . and Jamie . . . and Sirius who is godfather to me in ways Severus could never be . . . and Remus untainted by that constant burden of grief and self-hatred that mine gains whenever he sees me . . . I need that world, even if that world doesn't need me._

Perhaps it was selfish of her, to so lightly dismiss the duty she had to this, the place she had been born. It most likely needed her just as much-or as little-as Jamie's home world. But here she was dead, to all but Severus.

Time had passed, and life had moved on. Without her.

* * *

"Good afternoon, class." Professor Snape sighed wearily, from the desk at which he sat. "As you can see, we are missing three of our number, and are likely to continue in that situation for quite some time yet."

Four, if one counted Blaise Zabini, but the class had had time, if not much, to get used to that loss. Five, counting the Ravenclaw girl who had been Blaise's partner; she had dropped out and subsequently had her memory wiped only a class period or two after Blaise's death had become public knowledge.

"I heard Harry Potter got kidnapped by You-Know-Who!" Parvati heard the whisper behind her, and suppressed the urge to do something drastic to the person responsible-which grew as that remark elicited several shocked gasps and scandalized giggles.

"No way!" Someone else asserted. "If that was the case, he would have kicked You-Know-Who's butt and he'd be back already. He's _Harry Potter_ , after all."

"Well, _I_ heard" Parvati suppressed a groan at the interruption of yet a third voice, "that Harry Evans got kidnapped by a _dragon_ , and taken away to a remote tower with lots of defenses set up by an evil sorceress, and Harry Potter left to rescue her."

_Obviously Muggle-born . . . and a bit too fond of fairy-tales._

A breathy " _No way!_ ", a "Wicked!", and a few "Oh, isn't he so _bra~ave_?"s later, Parvati gave in and, with quiet dignity, began hitting her head against the desk.

"Ah, Miss Patil! So good to see we have a volunteer." Parvati lifted her head to stare at Professor Snape, wondering as she shook off the disorientation just exactly _what_ it was that she had just been volunteered for. "This works out quite well. You shall partner Miss Chang for the duration, until our errant students see fit to return. Bronze and goldenrod are close enough hues that you should have few compatibility problems, as well."

She just stared at him. "Well, what are you waiting for, girl? Get up and move over there already. You're holding up class." This jolted her into action, and she shifted over to settle into a new desk, beside the Chinese girl she really knew very little of. Sixth-year and Ravenclaw . . . and she had been Harry's partner.

_Harry_ . . . she resisted the urge to crumple around the pain in her heart, as she had already done entirely too many times in the mere days since the interdimensional traveler's disappearance. _I hope you made it back to where you belong . . . and I hope you're happy, as you could not be here._

_But oh, how I miss you . . . and I think I always will._

"I miss her too." The Ravenclaw at her side murmured, and her head shot up. Could Cho read minds? As if hearing this thought as well, Cho looked briefly amused, shaking her head. "No, I didn't read your mind. You were just looking so bereaved . . . and I remember you were close to her."

She looked down at her hands. "The way you looked . . . reminded me of the way I felt . . . a little bit after Cedric . . ." She screwed up her face, literally forcing out the last word, "died." Then Parvati was caught in that liquidy brown gaze as Cho looked up again. "Were you and she . . ."

"No." It was Parvati's turn to look away. "If it had been my choice . . . but no. I was . . . a friend to her. A good one, I hope. But never anything more." _No matter how much I might have wished . . ._ Then she looked back, sharply. "But Harry is _not_ dead. I would know it if she were."

"Then . . . why are you taking her disappearance so hard?"

"Because I think I know where she's gone . . . and though she's not dead, she might as well be; where she has gone I cannot follow . . . and I doubt she will ever return."

* * *

Draco knitted his fingers behind his head, leaned back against the pillows, and sighed; a sound of pure frustration. _Where is he?_ Well, considering the fact that he was staring straight at a clock that showed a time indicating the fact that it was either the middle of the night (hah!) or the middle of the afternoon class-and, seeing as it was Tuesday (unless he had lost more days than he thought while he was unconscious), he _knew_ Severus would be teaching-that answer was intuitively obvious.

Still . . . he was getting tired of lying around awake waiting for his godfather to return. He'd get up and search himself . . . if he didn't know for a fact that at this stage of his recovery, he'd get approximately three steps away from the bed before falling flat on his face. Always on his face; he had never managed to fall back onto the bed.

And before he found a master to apprentice himself to, he had had very little control over his power . . . so he had ended up letting it out in uncontrolled bursts-much like that one in the Chamber, except with even less control-at far more frequent intervals than he cared to remember.

Speaking of apprentices . . . turning his eyes away from the unhelpful clock and up towards the (equally unhelpful, if not more so) ceiling, he pondered what he had seen in his godfather's face _that night_. He was amazed that he had not picked up on it beforehand . . . or, even if he had missed it somehow, Sal'-who was almost as adept in the matter as he himself was-had not recognized the signs either.

Severus Snape had the latent potential to become a moderately powerful Necromancer. _Well,_ he thought, with an bit of an inward giggle, _of course! After all, at least half the school is already of the opinion that he_ is _undead, so why_ shouldn't _he be able to raise them?_

He had not realized he was smiling until a familiar voice asked, "And what has you in such a good mood all of a sudden?"

The smile vanished. _We need to have a long talk about it, he and I . . . but now is not the time._ "I'll tell you later. Where am I?" For the chamber he found himself in was one entirely unfamiliar to him-which ruled out most of the places he had expected to be brought.

"Ah. That." Snape sank into a chair a fair distance from the bed, steepling his fingers as he pondered. "The Headmaster, I'm afraid, is still under the erroneous impression that you are being possessed by Salazar Slytherin somehow. Nothing I can say has shaken that belief-especially now that I believe he is beginning to lose his trust in me as a result of my . . . spiriting you away."

He indicated the room. "This is one of my more obscure cabins, inherited from a little-known distant relation of my mother, a man that I never did like much the few times I met him. That, combined with the fact that it is situated in the wilds (such as they are) of Vermont, will keep him from suspecting that I am hiding you here."

"I'm in _hiding_? But . . . surely we could . . ."

Snape rubbed his forehead. "Albus Dumbledore is a great man, Draco, but he has his faults. One of them is an implacable hatred of the Dark Arts-for he believes that, without the Dark Arts, Dark Lords and the like would cease to rise. Thus, even if we were able to prove to him that you are _not_ Salazar Slytherin, he would be after you because you are a Necromancer, and he will expect you to be planning on returning Necromancy to the world for your own nefarious purposes."

Draco sighed, looking once more towards the ceiling. "I have been considering it, especially now that I think I can recall enough of the spells to actually be _able_ to teach it to anyone. Not for nefarious purposes, necessarily . . . with any Art, there is good you can do with Necromancy as well, you know." A frown. "Yet . . . it has probably become lost for a reason . . . so do I have any _right_ to try and resurrect it?" He turned his eyes back to his professor. "What do you think, Severus? In a way, it's your decision too."

Snape blinked. "I appreciate that you regard my views as worth incorporating in your decision, but . . . how do you figure that?"

With great effort, Draco propped himself into a sitting position. "Because, Severus, I can see in you great latent potential to become a Necromancer. Thus, if I decide to pass on my Art, you will be the first I pass it to."

* * *

Watching his goddaughter growling-the third time she had done so since they started this search-Snape felt it was his duty to offer a suggestion . . . for the good of her blood pressure, if nothing else! "Why not ask the Headmaster? I'm sure he knows where the Mirror is, as I've never known him to _not_ know where something in the castle is."

"I'm _sure_ it was around here somewhere . . ." Catching a second wind (or perhaps third or fourth), Lucia paced onward down yet another corridor. "No, that's all right. I'll figure this out somehow."

"You'd figure it out faster if Dumbledore-"

"No." She snapped. "I . . . sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. But . . . he's not involved in this matter, and I don't see why he should be. This is just something _I_ have to do."

She strode up to the next door and opened it, peeking inside. "No-wait! I remember this room." A slightly misty smile made its way to her face. "This is the boggart room. See that trunk over there? In the other universe, at least, there was a boggart hidden there." She looked down at her hands. "We never did figure out why our lighting spell flashed that way . . . or how our Patroni became temporarily so powerful that we were able to somehow banish the boggart with that alone . . ."

Snape's eyebrows raised. Not that it wasn't impressive, but . . . "Why were you using your Patronus in the first place? I was given to understand that, like Lupin, the boggart shifted to the moon for you."

"It still does." She confirmed. "But Jamie isn't a werewolf . . . so when the boggart shifted its attention to him it became a dementor. And we both . . . panicked, I guess." She closed the door again, a moody-and somehow sad-expression on her face. "I dreamed about Jamie for most of the summer, you know? I never mentioned it because I never thought it was really worth mentioning. I mean, a Harry Potter that's a _guy_? Much less one who grew up in almost exactly the _opposite_ way I did? Seemed just like a random, 'normal' dream to me." Shadow of a grin. "Which I guess should have clued me in on the fact that something was going on."

"It was really great at first, you know? I thought, here was someone who would understand what I've been through, literally like no one else-he had been through most of the same situations, after all. I think he felt that way too . . . we got along perfectly at first . . . but then, somehow, everything fell apart."

She shook her head, pushed away from the door, and started walking down the corridor once more. "We started fighting. Not physically, but arguing. Suddenly, it seemed like we could never agree on anything-and felt we needed to broadcast our disagreements to the entirety of Gryffindor Tower. I love him dearly, but most of the time I just can't _stand_ Jamie anymore."

"I just don't understand him at all. He's a Gryffindor, but he acts so much like a Slytherin that he might as well _be_ one! Furthermore, he and Draco were arch-rivals for the first four years of their schooling, and then poof! Out of the blue he just _happens_ to inform me that the two of them are _bonded_!"

"Draco's alive?" Snape felt almost dizzy at the thought. "In that other world, he's _alive_?!"

"Of course. After all, there he was an only child since Father and Mother didn't adopt me, so he absorbed all of Father's teachings and was such a good little Jr. Death Eater that Father never saw any need to kill him." She tilted her head. "He's _awful_ , Severus, only a little better than Weasley-though oddly enough, I think Jamie's actually loosening him up a bit. And I don't think he's going to go Death Eater anymore."

"That was the hardest part." She admitted softly, after a long pause, in which the only sound that could be heard was the rustling of cloth and the soft clomp of their shoes against the stone floor. "Everyone . . . nearly everyone else was more or less the same, but Oniisan . . . every time I looked at him, I couldn't help resenting the fact that _he_ was alive and my brother . . ."

All the vitality seemed to drain out of her; she pushed open the latest door halfheartedly and only glanced in before going to shut it once more. Halfway there, her eyes widened and she swung the door back open. "This is it!"

She rushed in and Snape, feeling an unfamiliar, cold weight in his heart, followed more slowly after. _I can't keep her here . . . not only would she never forgive me, but if it got out that she was alive again, she'd be in great danger from her father as well as Voldemort. Especially if he were ever to figure out who stole Angelus away._ His eyes blurred, briefly. _I can't keep her here . . . no matter how much I wish I could._

As his eyes cleared, they lay upon an unexpectedly familiar sight. "You never told me it was the Mirror of _Erised_."

She looked back, half a step away from turning to face the mirror. "What else would it have been?"

Now he began to seriously believe that perhaps it had all been a spectacularly unamusing dream after all. "Erised shows only desire, not truth, Harry. It is not and never has been an active mirror. How could you use it to travel between worlds?"

A brief, mirthless smile. "How could I retrieve the Philosopher's Stone? Because that was my deepest, most heartfelt desire. I know the cases are different, but the theory is the same. My greatest wish is to return to the universe that has wormed its way subtly into my heart; if I try hard enough, the mirror will grant to me that wish."

She turned to look at the mirror and, curious, Snape stepped up behind her. For a moment, he looked upon himself and saw little Ryuu in one arm, the other slung around a broadly grinning Harry who actually did, on further consideration, look quite a bit like himself. Leaning against Harry on the other side was Draco and standing a bit behind him, smiling just as happily as her daughter, stood his former wife. That odd blurring sensation began again, as he saw that desire, acknowledged it as a true one, and also finally acknowledged the fact that it would never come to be. But perhaps he could regain that fantastical contentment, just a bit, by raising Ryuu the way he wished he could have raised Harry.

At that point, that desire lost its hold on him as anything more than just a bit of a bittersweet dream, and slowly the mirror silvered, then focused again on an entirely different scene.

"What is Jamie doing in the Headmaster's office?" Lucia muttered to herself.

His attention focused on the two teenaged black-haired denizens of said office, and for a moment he wondered just which was which. Oddly, it was the resemblances to _himself_ that clued him in to the identity of the longer-haired one; not just hair color by any means, but the way he held himself, tiny mannerisms that seemed entirely familiar. "Arguing, it seems."

An incredulous glance back at him; whether for his dryly flippant remark, or the fact that he too could see the scene, he was not entirely sure. "The long-haired one, I believe, is your 'Jamie', correct? Do you recognize the other?"

Wand was drawn by the stranger; 'Jamie' simply somehow _pulled_ a silver dagger from what looked like a pair of gauntlets.

A flash of green light from the stranger, and Snape suddenly realized that a few of the mannerisms of the stranger had been oddly familiar as well . . . and why. "It couldn't be . . ." He breathed.

Lucia had placed her hands against the glass now, as if she truly believed that she could push through. "Tom Riddle?!"

* * *

"I'm descended from Slytherin too, you know."

"Yes, Riddle, I do know. Or would you prefer Voldemort?"

A muffled sound-that's right, Professor Ortega was still in the room.

"I plan to further his aims once I'm out of school . . . I will have great power, but if you were to rule by my side, we would be literally unstoppable."

Jamie was now using one of his daggers to pick at his nails. "Mmhm. Most likely." _You know jack squat about my aims, friend._

"So . . . as a sign of our partnership, I think you ought to give me one of those daggers. Two daggers, two heirs . . . it must be an omen."

Sighing, Jamie slid the dagger back into its sheath. "Riddle, where were you when I got to the part where you killed my family and I would rather kill myself than ever join _you_?"

A slight cough. "I think that last part was more implied than anything." Professor Ortega pointed out calmly.

Tom's face twisted in rage. "Are you denying me?"

Jamie blinked. "Give me a second to think about it. Yes. I do believe I am. Why stop now, after all?"

Quickly-not quite as fast as Jamie could do it, but still quite impressive as these things go-Tom had drawn his wand and pointed it at Jamie's heart. _Good thing I loaded these things with just about every curse-deflection charm that existed . . ._ Jamie, in retaliation, merely redrew one of his daggers.

The Slytherin fifth-year's face was a sight to behold in a twisted sort of way, as he snarled, "If you will not join me, then I will destroy you!"

Jamie snorted. "Been there, done that. Never quite worked the way you wanted it to." A winning smile. "I do believe I'm still here, after all."

A shadowy parody of a grin. "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. And I will, Harry Potter." _Now_ Jamie realized just how deadly a mistake he might very well have made. "I'll keep trying . . . but since you mentioned that your father is the only member of your family I left alive, let's start with him, shall we not? I wonder if you'll have such luck facing me if that father of yours dies?"

All logic flew out the window. It no longer mattered to Jamie whether the 'father' in question was James Potter or Severus Snape, only that Voldemort was threatening the life of people he cared for . . . again. "Don't you dare." He hissed. "One more reason to rid the world of your presence, Riddle. That's all I need."

"Not if I dispose of you first! _Avada Kedavra!_ "

* * *

" _Jamieeee!_ "

Under Snape's astonished eyes and Lucia's hands, the surface of the mirror began to ripple, first a little, then violently enough that he could no longer make out any part of the scene it still seemed to be showing.

And-as if time had slowed down-her hands were sinking into that glimmering silvery material; her hands, her arms . . . inch by inch, the mirror sucked in yet more.

A brilliant flash of light.

When he recovered his vision, the mirror had returned to its matte silver appearance, and Snape was alone in the room.

* * *

_Worst case scenario: one of the portraits gets singed. Hope it's Godric's._ The anger still boiled at Riddle beneath the surface, but both Salazar and, to a certain extent, Jamie had a great deal of practice at hiding their emotions; despite the anger he was able to wait patiently as the green light rushed in his direction.

_There._ As he had hoped but not quite dared expect, he was able to bend that light, collect it until it swirled sinuously around the blade of his dagger much in the same way the ashes of Xia had surrounded Draco. He felt pressure at the back of his mind as the spell struggled to get free; Salazar had found that, though spells weren't technically alive, they tended to take on certain characteristics of their casters-and this curse was imbued with a great deal of Riddle's malice towards Jamie. It strained to get free, eagerly anticipating stealing someone's life.

_Not today._ He smirked at Riddle while the majority of his mind was concentrated on trying to form the energy still surrounding his dagger into something useful.

" _Jamie!_ " His head shot up as, for a moment, he thought he saw Lucia, hanging there in the air, hands pressed against some invisible surface. Just a moment, and then it was gone.

" _Avada Kedavr_ -" He cursed himself as he heard Riddle's chant; he should have known better than to let himself get distracted by a patently false apparition in the middle of a duel; however unconventional a duel it was. Unable to think of anything better, he loosened his second dagger, sending it flying to strike and dig into the wall only an inch away from Riddle's head, hoping it would startle him into dropping that final syllable.

_No such luck_. The other boy flinched, but all that did was aim the spell towards his head instead of heart. Still enough to possibly kill him. He raised the dagger, suddenly unsure. This much had been tested before, but not trying to control and harness _two_ Killing Curses at once . . . _I need to get out of here!_

The green light, instead of driving straight for his head, started spreading out into some odd parody of a shield about a foot in front of the dagger. No longer under any sort of control, the first curse struck out and attached to the second, feeding it; strengthening it as it continued to stretch.

It flashed brilliantly white, unbelievably bright; Jamie, unable to do anything else any more, simply succumbed, falling into the white until there was nothing else.

* * *

_He's gone._ Triumph surged through Tom, triumph that doubled as he caught sight, once again, of the dagger, still quivering in the wall beside his head. "Hah. Looks like I get one of them after all." He applied a smirk of his own. "That's what the bastard gets, trying to defy me."

He gently stroked the snake's head. _But you will obey me, won't you?_

Green emerald eyes blinked once, slowly. _You are of the line of my masster. I judge you worthy._

Satisfied, he yanked the dagger from the wall. As soon as his hand wrapped around it, though, it began to change. The silvery metal darkened to deepest obsidian; the snake's eyes shifted from emerald to ruby; only the forest-green dragonhide remained the same. _Yess._ The snake hissed, the sound now somehow more ominous. _You are worthy._

He wrapped it gently in his cloak for now; a sheath of some sort would have to be found soon. His eyes narrowed as a sound impinged itself on his concentration and he turned towards the door; he had forgotten completely that his Head was still here . . . " _Stupefy_." He told the man's back as he attempted to open the door and make his escape.

Then, kneeling beside his now-prone body, " _Enervate._ " He smiled down at his instructor; a relatively gentle smile as he was genuinely fond of his Head of House and Voldemort had once again receded, leaving only Tom Riddle for the moment. "I'm sorry, Professor Ortega, but you know too much." He placed his wand to the man's temple, and his Charms professor's eyes widened, seeing Tom Riddle as exactly what he was for the first time.

" _Obliviate!_ "

* * *

Another familiar scene. Jamie drifted, seating himself at the Slytherin table without really thinking about it; it was home and he would take this chance while he had it, before with the coming of daylight he would have to once again pretend.

_"You can't apparate into or out of Hogwarts!"_ He could almost hear Hermione, scolding him and Ron over their latest high flights of imagination and speculation. His bond to Draco was still a constant ache, but he realized that, however little they had talked or even seen each other recently, he missed Ron and Hermione, too. They had been his first friends and were still some of his best, despite the new distance between them.

He looked around the Great Hall, a small smile on his face. Well, for being unable to apparate around Hogwarts, he seemed to have done a pretty fair job of it. Then his smile slipped away as his hand brushed against the empty gauntlet.

How could he have been so stupid, leaving one of his daggers with Riddle like that? No wonder the bastard was so powerful, with one of his daggers there to enhance his power and help him.

And that comment. _"Let's start with him, shall we not? I wonder if you'll have such luck facing me if that father of yours dies?"_

And, from much farther back in time, another memory, another comment made by an older Voldemort as he gloated from the back of Quirrell's head. _"I killed your father first and he put up a courageous fight . . . but your mother needn't have died . . ."_

His mother needn't have died, but his father _did_ have to. Because, speaking of Severus Snape, he had told Voldemort that his father was the only family he had left . . . but as Harry Potter, his father, to Voldemort, would have been James Potter. And Voldemort now believed that if he were to kill Jamie's father, he would take away whatever it was that helped him to defeat or avoid death at his hands so many times.

It was all his fault.

His parents' deaths . . . _all_ of it.

In the darkness of the Great Hall at Hogwarts, Harry Potter threw his head back and began to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 21 July 2003
> 
> == 
> 
> ... Okay, I have to admit. There are many things about this story that I would probably do differently if I were rewriting it now. But I still unironically love this ridiculous 1940s Tom Riddle cameo arc. XD


	17. Hinting at Various Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sighs* So much for making even a month . . .
> 
> Insert all the standard excuses for lateness here -except the ones that involve people dying or other similarly truly serious personal problems. *blinks innocently* The dog ate my computer?
> 
> The quote that is quoted belongs to (as far as I can tell) James Dean. Harry Potter and associated people all belong to J.K. Rowling. I don't think I have any characters that I made up out of whole cloth in this chapter . . . but if I do, I'm sure it's obvious that they belong to me.
> 
> And now, especially since it's been so long, I will stop talking and let you get on to the chapter.

"Professor? . . . I think I hear something. Or someone."

"I can hear it too." _It sounds like . . ._

The two shared an uncomprehending glance. Who on earth, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the Great Hall, would be _giggling_?

* * *

_It's all my fault._ The laughter had subsided for the most part, though it left with it the realization that he had come far closer than he ever expected to understanding his godfather's mindset the day he was captured. Sometimes, when everything gets to be too much, and you get hit by a blindside you should have been expecting, what seems to be conclusive proof that the universe is, indeed, out to totally screw you over, there's nothing you _can_ do but laugh.

He had pillowed his head on his arms, still not up to facing either Gryffindor Tower or Draco's room which might still be Riddle's . . . or someone else, anywhere in between. It was hard to tell which time period he had landed in-or whether it had been a simple matter of an impossible Apparation-when the Great Hall looked the same as it always had. And despite the fact that he was no longer laughing out loud, he could not seem to keep from giggling. _Merlin, but I'm a royal mess._

_And a royal screw-up._ He reminded himself-as if he could forget! _Can't you do anything right, Harry Potter?_ Except that wasn't his name anymore. Not exactly. _Harry Salazar James Rafael Potter-Snape-Slytherin?_ The thought of even trying to carry around a name that laborious resurrected the giggles that had themselves been about to die. Or of his father trying to digest that mouthful as he targeted Jamie that first day of class in first year. _So, Mr. Potter-Snape-Slytherin, where would I find a bezoar?_ Or the thought of, not only a Slytherin, but one with that last name, being the wizarding world's Golden 'Boy-Who-Lived'.

"I fail to see what is so amusing about being out-after curfew." A clipped voice that almost succeeded in shocking the last of the giggles out of Jamie, shocking him into a more-shall we say-sane frame of mind . . . a beloved, familiar clipped voice, one that he now knew almost as well as his own. _At least that answers my question of what time period I'm in._

He turned and smiled up at Professor Snape. "Absolutely nothing, sir." Strangely, those familiar features seemed set in sharper relief than they ought to be-was his night vision improving along with his eyes in general? Or was this, perhaps, just an as yet undiscovered facet of the changes wrought in him due to his Animagus transformation?

And then his eyes shifted left, to where another figure stood beside and a little behind Severus.

And his heart stopped.

* * *

Blaise had met a large number of relatively varied people in his life, between his family (split Light and Dark almost exactly down the middle; it made family reunions _veery_ interesting . . .), school, and all the trouble he inevitably got into with his best friend Harry; he was used to a variety of greetings.

Perhaps it was just his sense of humour, but one relatively common one that he never quite tired of was the almost inevitable "Are you a guy or a girl?!" The legend (false, of course, but still a good story-which was why Blaise went out of his way never to flat-out deny it) went that that was what his father had said the first time he looked upon his newborn child.

He was _not_ , however, used to being stared at silently for an excessive period of time before the person in question burst out with "Oh my God! Blaise! You're still alive!" In addition to that being a rather obvious state of matters, the comment itself contained a few too many exclamation points for his preference. Not to mention the fact that it was currently dark enough in the Great Hall that the person-whoever he or she was-shouldn't have been able to see well enough to recognize him in the first place . . .

He stepped a bit closer. ". . . Do I know you?"

Motion; the stranger bowed his (her?) head. The shift in tenor of the darkness indicated longish dark hair falling; even if there had been a brighter source of light, it was likely that the hair would have hidden most of the stranger's face. "No . . . I suppose not." More motion, this time tilting his head back upwards. "You do know this is futile, do you not?"

"I know that I haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about." Severus replied stiffly. "I also know that you still have not yet given an acceptable explanation for what you are doing here at this time of night."

The stranger stood fluidly, a motion that Blaise found vaguely familiar but could not recall from where exactly. "You and Blaise are leaving now to go to a meeting with Voldemort-which, now that I think of it, I bet was prearranged, since if your Mark was hurting you, you wouldn't have stopped just because you saw something a bit out of place here."

"Once there, I assume the plan is to get Blaise initiated so that he can information that you may miss, since you are no longer quite as trusted a member of Voldemort's ranks as you were before." The stranger raked a hand through his hair. "But this will also be a test for you, Professor, to prove that your loyalty to the bastard is still strong. By the end of this meeting, it is extremely likely that, for whatever reason, either Blaise, perhaps you, or maybe even both of you will be dead."

"So . . . please . . . if only for my peace of mind . . . don't do this? Turn around, go back to bed, let a new spy work its way up through the ranks on its own."

"And just how have you managed to come to this . . . fascinating conclusion?"

The stranger slumped back down to the seat. "Please, Severus . . . Professor . . . it's too late and too much has happened to me already today; I'm not equipped to handle all that elaborate Slytherin crap right now. I saw it happen, all right? Back home, this has already happened; you ended up killing Blaise to prove your loyalty." He scrubbed his eyes. "I really don't know if I could handle any more death just now."

Despite the fact that the darkness inhibited their ability to see each other, Blaise and Severus still managed to share a quite effective Look. "We don't want to die either." Blaise assured him soothingly. "Look, why don't you just stay here and rest for a while? The two of us will be back soon, and then we can take you someplace nice. All right?"

"You think I'm crazy. You both do." He looked from one Slytherin to the other, a motion quite similar to a head shake. ". . . Now I know how Cassandra felt. I'm telling the truth. Believe me."

"Of course we do." Blaise smiled; he didn't expect the stranger to be able to see the smile, but knew it would leak over into his voice. Then, without a change, still in a conversational tone. " _Petrificus Totalus._ "

"We'll return soon enough. Please refrain from leaving between now and then." Severus smirked. "Oh-good job, Blaise."

"Thanks." He nodded, entirely too pleased by the praise from his teacher and mentor. As they turned a corner, now out of sight of the odd stranger, he slowed momentarily. ". . . do you think there might have been any truth to his claims?"

"The possibility of one or both of our deaths?" Severus clarified, never changing speed. Blaise had to jog a few yards to catch up. "It could happen. The same could be said of any meeting with Him. One of the things you'll have to learn, Blaise, is that in this line of work nothing is ever certain.

"I may die tonight, or at the next meeting, or the one after that. So might you-though usually, he gives newer members a bit more leeway. You _hope_ not, obviously, but eventually you learn to live with the fact that you're living on borrowed time. Or" he shrugged "you don't. Harsh, I know, but that's the way the world works."

"Dream as though you'll live forever, live as though you'll die tomorrow?" Blaise quoted softly.

"Precisely."

* * *

_What a . . . a . . . a_ Slytherin _thing to do!_ Jamie was torn between exasperation and reluctant admiration. The exasperation won after only a very short battle, but he was no longer sure whether he was angry at Severus and Blaise for not believing in him or at himself for being stupid enough to think that there was any chance they _would_ believe him.

None of which had much to do with the fact that he was now in a considerable bind . . . especially if he were to have any chance of catching up and saving this Blaise. He didn't even know where they were going . . .

_Masster?_

_How many timess do I have to tell you not to call me 'Masster'?_ He snapped back, an instinctive response. Then blinked, when he realized he had managed to move his mouth enough to form the words in Parseltongue . . . and, for that matter, that he had managed to move his eyes enough to blink.

_It would help if I knew what you are called now._ The tiny snake's head detached itself from the layer of invisibility covering the rest of the dagger.

That was almost enough to send him into a renewed fit of giggles, but his balance had returned enough to where he was able to restrain himself. Or perhaps balance wasn't quite the correct word; he still felt frayed (and fray _ing_ ) around the edges, but he had a goal now, something to focus on. Something important enough to him that he was able to keep himself from falling apart completely in favor of focusing on that goal. _Call me Harry. Or Jamie. Salazar is fine, too, but only when there are no other Parselmouths nearby._

_Jamie?_ The silver serpent rolled that around on its tongue. _Jamie, what has happened to my sister? She feels . . . different. Wrong._

If he hadn't been otherwise constrained by the curse, Jamie would have shot straight up. _You can feel the other dagger? Can you tell where it is?_

_Of course. We are as the closest of twins, always knowing of each others' presence; you made us to be such._

Jamie smiled slightly, lost for the moment in the memory that comment had provoked. _So I did. So I did . . ._

That took care of the problem of being able to find them. Wherever they were, Voldemort would be, and wherever Voldemort was, Jamie felt sure that he would bring 'his' dagger along.

Now, if only he could get _free_ . . . _  
_

* * *

"Do _you_ know what happened to Harry?"

Parvati raised an eyebrow. _Only now are they getting around to investigating?_ "Which one?"

"The guy."

"The girl."

Hermione and Ron exchanged glances, and Hermione clarified, "Both."

Parvati shrugged, putting on an outward facade of relative uncaring. "I don't know."

"But we've asked everyone; you're the only one left." Ron's voice held a note of desperation.

"And you were the closest friend the female Harry had." Hermione added. "We figure they're both probably in the same place, and you're the only lead we have."

Parvati folded her arms. "I'm not even the last person to have seen her. I have as little to go on as-no, probably even less than-you do." _Not that that's going to stop me . . . but you don't need to know that. I don't need either of your help._

"No, you're not the last person to have seen her; I am." Ron admitted, a bit shamefaced. "But you know her better. What could cause her to run off into the night . . . and not come back?"

"Harry had . . . a fairly well developed flight reflex. There are many things, most based in some sort of emotional uncertainty, that could make her run. But I can't think of anything that could keep her from coming back." _Well . . . one thing._ Parvati smiled a little. "She's just Gryffindor like that."

"Then . . . why hasn't she returned?"

* * *

_Six o'clock . . . Severus is usually back by now. Maybe he he stayed at Hogwarts a little longer to . . . I dunno. Grade papers? I hope he's staying safe . . ._

He felt extreme frustration tint the bond. Only just barely, of course-it was impossible to feel anything deeply through the bond with it as stretched as it was.

Earlier that day, it had seemed to snap back into full operation for only a moment . . . but then literally the next moment, it stretched back out. Not quite as far he didn't think . . . or perhaps it was just as far in a different way. Hard to tell. He and Salazar had never experienced anything like this.

_But even Salazar and I weren't nearly as big of trouble-magnets as Harry is, just on his_ own _. Of course all this weird crap is happening to me, now that I've been so foolish as to ally myself with him in this way._

At least, apart from the frustration, Harry seemed to be doing all right. That was something.

The white fox curled further inward on itself, closing ice-blue eyes wearily. Not enough. But something.

* * *

"It's so hard to find private places to speak."

"Especially when it's an inter-House deal. Otherwise, we could just stake out one of our dorm rooms." Cho agreed. "Well, we _could_ try the Survival room . . ."

Parvati winced. "There are limits even to my Gryffindorish bravery. Did you hear what happened to the last group that went in there without a class-based excuse? It's like the Snape of the old days has returned with a vengeance."

Not having been on the receiving end of Snape's _special_ treatment for Gryffindors-especially the Gryffindors having the ill luck to have both Harry Potter (the bane of Snape's existence) and Neville Longbottom (the bane of Snape's cauldrons' existence . . . and thus not very high on his list either) in their class-Cho, nodding fervently, added "And more so."

"Besides, even supposing he let us stay there, he'd be monitoring our conversation. And considering that he's the one that _built_ the wards, I'm sure he'd have no trouble circumventing them and going straight to Dumbledore."

Cho looked at Parvati quizzically. "Why would Snape go to Dumbledore? I wasn't aware that we'd be planning anything that drastic . . . or, for that matter, that we'd necessarily be planning anything at all."

Parvati blushed. "Sorry. Strike of paranoia there. Still, just in case we _did_ start planning something . . ."

"He'd probably kick us out anyway. I wonder what has him so out of sorts? I mean, usually I hear nightly horror tales about what Snape has done to the latest kid that decided it would be a brilliant idea to sneak out after curfew, but these last couple of days . . ." Cho shook her head. "Nothing. It's like he's not swooping the halls after curfew anymore."

"Do you get the feeling that all of this is interconnected? Harry's disappearance-both of them- _Malfoy's_ disappearance, Snape's sudden change in habits . . ."

"Draco!" Cho clapped her hands, once, loudly. "I bet he could tell us where Harry-the-Potter has gone. And I bet the two Harrys are somewhere more-or-less together. So if we find one, we'll find the other." She frowned. "If only _he_ hadn't disappeared, too . . ."

"Why would Malfoy . . .?" Parvati trailed off. _They're friends, yeah, but so are Harry and I, and I have no idea where_ she's _gone._

Unfortunately, Cho seemed disinclined to provide an answer for her almost-question.

"Snape would probably know where Draco is." A new voice interrupted. Both girls turned. Pansy, finding herself the focus of two none-too-friendly pairs of eyes, shrugged uncomfortably. "I recall hearing that he was helping Dumbledore look for Draco the night that he disappeared."

The two girls exchanged glances. "Why are you telling us this?"

Pansy sighed. "If you must know, I'm worried about Draco. And since you two seem to be the only other people in the entire school who are even peripherally considering doing something about his disappearance . . . three heads are better than two, right?"

Cho looked skeptical. "Surely the other Slytherins are worried."

Pansy sighed again, this time with a definite exasperated edge. "What other Slytherins? Our year has a very small crop, you know. And much as I love them, Vincent, Gregory, and Millicent rarely bother to think any deeper thoughts than investigating the location of the next food source. As for the rest of the Slytherins . . ." She threw up her hands. "We're Slytherin! What's in it for us? Yes, there is a certain amount of loyalty involved, but when there's no proof, no clues to go on . . ."

Her expression turned sad. "Blaise would have been with me . . . then I wouldn't have had to propose a truce to you two. But as it is, I figure the next step is to catch Snape. And for that, I'm going to need access to the Survival Room-have you noticed that you never see him anywhere else for any appreciable period of time?"

"And for that," Parvati summarized, "you need us."

"A Gryffindor with a brain." Pansy observed dryly. "I never thought I'd see the day."

Matching Pansy's arid tone exactly, Parvati retorted, "I'm hardly more surprised to finally be confronted with a Slytherin possessing a heart."

Cho just rolled her eyes.

* * *

After the initial shock of just being in the man's presence had worn off, Blaise decided, after careful reflection, that Voldemort was even uglier than he had expected him to be. And that was pretty ugly, considering that he had spent four years listening to Harry recite to him what few tales her father had been willing to tell her about the Dark Times.

Of course, the greatly increased ugliness could have something to do with the physical changes brought on by his resurrection . . . but that thought was the sort that Blaise shoved down into a corner of his mind labeled "Details, details".

"Ah, Severus, my pet." The rather demonic-looking man hissed. Blaise could have sworn he saw his red eyes glowing. "So good to see you again, and to see that you have done as I requested."

"My Lord." Severus sank gracefully to his knees. "I have done as you requested and brought to you the one who I have judged as the most likely to be loyal to your cause. It is only a pity that the young Malfoy child . . ."

"Young Draco has already entered my service." Voldemort interrupted him coldly. "Quite well educated for his age, too; I find myself favorably impressed. Of course, unlike some, my Lucius chose to enroll _his_ child in Durmstrang, to better prepare him for my service."

"But you have a child, too, do you not?" The red-eyed man mused. "Ah, you thought I would not know, did you not? But how, when you have revealed your relationship with that mudblood to the world, could you think I would not have known?"

Voldemort paced over to stand right before Blaise, who suppressed a sudden, overpowering urge to lean away. Or run. That would be acceptable too. Here, with the man less than a foot away from him, feeling panicked like a small rodent cornered by a snake, he could quite easily understand why some people feared even to utter the man's name.

"Young . . . Zabini, is it not? Yes, Blaise Zabini." Voldemort continued immediately, to all appearances ignoring completely his somewhat jerky nod. "So, you wish to become one of my followers and keep me up to date as to what goes on in that school?"

Blaise fell to his knees, bowing his head. "That is my desire, my Lord."

"Good, good." Before he could flinch away, cold white fingers had reached down and tilted his chin upwards, so he was once more forced to look at the Dark Lord's face. "I have an assignment for you, little Blaise. Call it . . . an initiation, if you will."

"Anything I can, I will do for you, my Lord." Privately, Blaise thought he was laying it on a little thick, but perhaps not. Certainly Voldemort seemed not to have caught on, as he came as close to smiling as that snake-like face could.

"Very good. You will do well in my ranks, my young friend." Fingers released his chin, and he concentrated on refraining from shuddering, or flinching, anything that might show his true feelings towards the man in front of him. "Very well. I have discovered a traitor in my ranks, young Blaise. I wish for you to dispose of him."

All his tightly strung nerves seemed to thrum at the word 'traitor', hitting him with a burst of adrenaline. "With pleasure, my Lord. Traitors must be punished." He even strove to insert a certain amount of enthusiasm into the statement-wasn't he supposed to be playing the part of a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, Death Eater-wannabe, after all?

Voldemort pointed at Snape. "Kill him."

* * *

She was seeing stars after landing particularly hard as she fell from . . . whatever it was that had happened. _Deja vu, anyone?_

Slowly, holding her head just to be certain, she sat up, peering around. Dark-so it was probably still night wherever she was. An earthy smell; a view of the sky above that seemed peculiarly blocked, in the sort of way trees do. So, she was in a . . . forest of some kind. Yet it didn't have quite the same dark feel as the Forbidden Forest, nor the familiar feel of the numerous wooded plots that studded the Malfoy estates.

She shrugged to herself. Obviously, the only way she'd find out where she was would be to walk until she found something-or someone-with that information.

Minutes passed, and she settled into a steady rhythm, to the point where walking no longer took even the smallest portion of her conscious thought. Instead, she amused herself-though 'amused' was perhaps not the best word to use-by thinking about Severus and Angelus; about Parvati and Jamie and Cho and, though she tried to shove the subject aside every time she actually caught herself, especially about Ron.

Wrestling with _that_ particular subject matter was time- and energy-consuming enough that, in what seemed like no time at all, she found herself approaching a break in the trees. A break that opened up onto a nice little street-the sort found in residential areas, relatively well-kept but not terribly large or busy.

Turning left on a whim, she continued to walk, searching for signs of habitation other than the road. She was only beginning to descend back into her thoughts, though, when a vaguely electric-seeming shock shot through her, bringing her wide awake. Had those been . . . wards? Blinking, she looked forward, to find the road had ended . . . then started up a few yards further on, this time a simple dirt one. _Well, of course . . . it would be kinda hard to get Muggle pavers through all those wards . . . if the wizarding inhabitants even know what paved roads_ are _. . ._

She shook her head. Well, wizarding was probably better than Muggle-it would be easier to find out what was going on as far as matters she actually cared about were concerned. Either way, there were still no other signs of human habitation yet.

Continuing to walk, she was taken by surprise when a motorcycle whooshed past her from behind. She brought her head up, tracking the motorcycle with her eyes. _What is a motorcycle doing around_ here _? And_ how _on earth did it ever managed to pass through the wards that I_ know _I felt . . .?_

For a moment, she felt a flash of the strangest image . . . a flying motorcycle, one that felt strangely familiar. But from where? Given that she had grown up a Malfoy, it was rather worthy of note that she even knew what a motorcycle _was_ ; she was sure she had never been near one. And that there was one headed straight for what bore all the signs of being a wizarding town . . .

She snorted, suddenly. _Here I am, nattering on to myself, as if seeing a motorcycle had some sort of deep, mystical significance. It's probably just that one of the people in town is fascinated with Muggle society-and has enough basic common sense to actually get the thing to work._ Having convinced herself (even if that image still niggled at the back of her mind), she firmly shoved all thoughts about motorcycles away . . . just in time to barely avoid smacking into a sign posted on the edge of the road.

"Godric's Hollow, Pop. 300"

Lucia frowned, and not just because the sound of her voice made her even more paranoid than the dark and spookily quiet night. _Godric's Hollow . . . sounds familiar. Godric Gryffindor?_ She shook her head. _Why would an out-of-the-way town like this be named after Gryffindor?_

Loud noise suddenly breaking into the night for the second time nearly gave her a heart attack, and she was able to do little more than stand and blink as she watched the motorcycle headed back in her direction.

Or perhaps it was a different motorcycle. But . . . _one_ in a (presumably) entirely wizarding town was enough of a stretch. Two seemed utterly out of the question. The noise rose in pitch as it approached, then abruptly spluttered out as the person stopped . . . right in front of her.

"You seem a mite lost." The voice was warm, comforting . . . it somehow struck a chord in her; though she was sure she had never heard it before, it still felt familiar.

". . . I'm right outside Godric's Hollow." She replied, shaking off the shock and the unreal feeling to the entire conversation.

"Of course, of course." He replied genially. "Now, did ye know that before or after this here sign nearly took your head off?"

She blushed, and was glad the darkness hid her face. "Is it really that obvious?"

A motion that might have been a shrug. "Most people don't walk to the village. Either they floo or apparate in, or they have more Muggle-seeming devices like my baby here" he thumped the seat of his motorcycle "to travel by. So, since you were walking, I just assumed you were new."

Such straightforward reasoning . . . it reminded her of Hermione, increased her sense of kinship with the man in front of her. She almost laughed, and her voice, when she spoke again, held a far greater store of good humor. "Well, in this case your assumptions were truth. Could you tell me how much farther until I get to the actual village?"

"It's a matter of less than a minute driving. If you were to insist on walking the rest of the way . . . I'd say maybe five minutes."

_Not much farther, then. Good._ She was beginning to grow ever more aware of the fact that she had not slept in far too long. "Could you . . . do you know of any good, cheap inns in Godric's Hollow?"

"So you're not visiting someone? How very odd. Rarely do we get any _complete_ strangers around here." A considering pause. "You know, I don't know that we _have_ an inn. Godric's Hollow is pretty small, you know. People don't come out here much. I'm sure we could find someone to keep you for a night, though."

"Thanks." She yawned, and began walking again. Somehow, just knowing that the town was pretty close was enough to motivate her to begin moving once again. After a while, though, she noticed that the motorcycle had not yet started up again, and, looking to the side, found that the man was walking beside her. "What are you doing?"

"I figured if you were going to go the Gryffindor route and refuse to let me drive you back to town, the least I could do was provide you with some company on the walk back." The tone of voice was _pure_ innocence.

"My mother told me never to accept rides from strangers." Lucia yawned again. Despite the fact that it gave her the motivation to move onward, the knowledge that her goal was so close also served to bring crashing down on her head every bit of exhaustion she had been gathering over the last . . . who knew how many hours. "Wait . . . that's a Muggle saying. Mother would never have said that . . . maybe I heard it from 'Mione . . ."

The man chuckled. "Yes . . . even being pureblooded, a certain number of Muggle expressions have made it into my vocabulary as well . . . even before I made friends with . . ." he trailed off. "No matter. It's in the past now. Anyway, I suppose it's just as well you're not accepting the ride I never quite got around to offering, since if my son ever learned that I drove a passenger around without a helmet on . . ."

The elaborate shudder in his voice was such a piece of overacting that Lucia laughed in spite of herself. "You were a class clown, weren't you."

"A mere clown?!" He sounded-again, greatly exaggerated-offended now. "I think not! I was _the_ premier prankster to walk the halls of Hogwarts."

"Better even than the Marauders?" She asked mockingly, her eyebrows raised.

". . . I guess that answers my question as to whether you had gone to Hogwarts."

Now _that_ was an obvious ploy to change the subject if Lucia had ever heard one. "Of course. I'm a British witch . . . where else would I have gone? Be going."

"What year are you? I thought you sounded a little young to have graduated . . ."

"Fifth-year Gryffindor." Lucia smiled, remembering with a certain amount of vindictive glee, now, the color her father's face had turned when he learned _that_ particular bit of information.

"Really. My son's a fifth-year, too. Hufflepuff." Overly dramatic. "A _disappointment_ to the family, I tell you!"

"Hey . . . most of the Hufflepuffs I've met have seemed nice enough." _When they weren't accusing Oniisan and I of being the Demon Twin Heirs of Slytherin, or some such nonsense . . ._ "Besides, you can't get much more of a disappointment to the family than _I_ am."

"Ah. One of those ancient pureblood noble stick-up-their-ass Slytherin families? I'm amazed you turned out as sane as you sound."

After first spending a few moments goggling at the fact that an adult had just cursed in front of her (which, being the age she was, she was more used to adults being annoyingly clean with their language, as if afraid to taint her. As if she hadn't heard all the words they were thinking a thousand times over), Lucia finally mustered a response. "So . . . I was wondering, where did you get that bike? If you don't mind telling me. It's just . . . such a Muggle contraption, I wouldn't think that most wizards would know which was was up, much less how to ride it as well as you seem to." So perhaps it wasn't a very _good_ response . . .

There was a long silence. ". . . I didn't used to. It belonged to . . . a friend, who had always loved such things. He was a bit like you - a Gryffindor from a primarily Slytherin family - so perhaps at first his fascination with motor-driven vehicles began as a way to thumb his nose at his family." A long pause, and when the man began again, his voice was softer. "When he . . . left it to me in his will . . . I felt it was only right to learn to ride it the way it deserved to be ridden."

Left _it to . . . god, Harry, you're such an idiot._ "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't . . . I mean . . ."

The man chuckled, just a little. "Please, don't feel guilty. It was . . . a long time ago. I don't know that I'll ever stop mourning, but I'm long past the time when I fall into a deep depression every time he's mentioned."

An odd smile. "You know, less that a month ago, I would have been absolutely certain I'd never reach that point. Yet . . . I do believe I'm getting there."

"This probably sounds unacceptably rude, but . . ."

"Who did I lose?" Lucia looked upward, remaining silent for a long moment. "My brother. Almost exactly two months ago . . . the night before we were to leave to come back to Hogwarts. Father finally returned home . . ." She shuddered, and fell silent.

". . . Why am I telling you all this? I suppose my godfather would say because I'm a foolish child who is entirely too Gryffindor for my own good . . ."

"Your godfather, I take it, is another one of those Slytherins you grew up with?" The man returned, humor in his voice.

"Oh, no." Lucia deadpanned. "He's _far_ more bearable."

"Please don't think I'm a creepy old man for saying this . . . but I think one of the reasons I'm so comfortable talking to you is that I feel like . . . I know you from somewhere, even though I'm almost sure I've never seen you before."

Lucia nodded, then belatedly realized that gesture would not exactly be visible. "I know what you mean . . . who knows, maybe we were father and daughter in another life!" She grinned.

The man laughed. "Who knows . . . maybe you're right."

Light began infusing the area as they seemed to be approaching the main village; a couple of houses still had their lights on. "It looks like the Rustins-they're neighbors of mine, have a daughter about your age, but she's a Squib so she attends the nearest Muggle high school-are still up. I bet they'd let you stay the night with them."

Lucia continued walking in silence, knowing it was a decent suggestion so unwilling to express her objections-especially when she had no rational basis, just an unwillingness to leave this person it seemed she had known forever already.

The man looked down-now that Lucia had some light to work from, she actually caught the gesture-and seemed to slow the speed at which he was walking. "Or . . . I suppose you could stay with me. It's a pretty big house, and since my son is at Hogwarts, I'm alone in it except for our house elf . . . I'd certainly enjoy the company, but . . ."

"You don't want to make me think you really _are_ a creepy old man." Lucia grinned. "I'd love to stay with you. I'm sure my godfather would have many scathing words to say to me about accepting an offer like this from a total stranger . . . but I have the feeling you would not betray my trust."

"Well then, consider the offer extended. Except, of course, I could never extend an invitation to such a beautiful young lady" complete bullshit, of course, as his eyes couldn't possibly be good enough to pinpoint more than height and possibly approximate length and shade of hair in this lighting "without even knowing her name, now could I?"

Yet again-or perhaps as a continuation of the previous one-Lucia grinned. There was just something about the man that did that to her, as if he was by nature just one big infectious smile. "Harry Evans." After nearly two months of being immersed in that role, the lie rolled off her tongue almost more easily than her real name would have.

"How odd." The man sounded startled. "My son's named Harry."

Perhaps on accident, perhaps by design, it was under a particularly bright street light that he decided to stop and turn to face her. "I'm-"

_He's uglier than Moody. I didn't know that was possible!_ -that first, uncharitable thought she quickly suppressed, because upon seeing his face, awful as it looked, the niggling feeling of familiarity developed into a full-blown alarm.

He had short, salt-and-pepper hair that looked exceedingly windblown-though because it was that way naturally, or because he had, after all, just been riding a motorcycle only minutes before, she did not know. His right ear was missing a chunk off the top, an area that corresponded with one of the widest silver streaks. His face was more-or-less heart-shaped, liberally covered in scars of different lengths and seeming severity-one of which looked almost like it had been stitched the Muggle way; the worst of which was one that began near the middle of his forehead, slicing down over his left eyelid and ending near the middle of his left cheek.

This scar, unlike Lucia's own, was obviously not a curse scar, as to all appearances it had cost him the use of his left eye. The right one was still open, glittering brightly hazel in the street light with the same innate humor that had brought her to compare the man's personality to an infectious grin.

She wasn't sure exactly what it was that had tipped her off. Perhaps it was the shape of the face, the tilt of the single eye, the familiar way the hair spiked every-which-way-though, now that her Snape heritage was beginning to show through, it was mostly the shortness of her hair that kept it that out-of-control-dim memories of looking in the mirror and of the pictures Jamie had showed her, or just that _personality_ that was just like all the stories she had heard.

Whatever it was, though, the sense of familiarity came to a point and she _knew_ who this man was, who he _had_ to be, despite the apparent impossibility.

"-James Potter."

* * *

"My Lord-I-"

"You what, young Zabini?" The good humor was swiftly disappearing from Voldemort's face. "You will not obey me?"

"My Lord, your wish is my command . . . but . . ."

". . . But he is your Head of House, and evidently doing far better a job at instilling loyalty than mine ever did." Swiftly, at a pace such that it seemed almost as if he had glided instead of walked, Voldemort approached Snape and kicked him in the knee. Soundlessly, the Potion Master fell, forced off balance-yet in his fall, not once did he reach towards the limb that was probably hurting a great deal.

"Still, it is not a hard decision, young Zabini. Either you are loyal to me, in which case you will follow my order, or you are not."

"My Lord . . ." Weren't Death Eaters only supposed to face this sort of moral and ethical quandary _after_ they were marked?

"Do it, Blaise." Snape said quietly. " 'Dream as though you'll live forever' . . ."

_But how could I ever look Harry in the face again if it was with the knowledge that I had killed her father? Yet how can I not, when being in a position to spy could conceivably save thousands of lives? Surely Harry would understand that . . ._

He lifted his wand reluctantly, getting a dim, obscure sense of near satisfaction at the small smile that appeared on Voldemort's face as student seemed to choose him over teacher. _If only you knew . . . I may do this, but it will never be for you. I will stain my soul that others may live untainted._ " _Ava_ -"

He faltered. Seeing the encouragement in Severus' eyes was in some ways worse than if he had been looking at him in condemnation or betrayal. How would he cope when he _did_ see such emotions in his victims' eyes, if he couldn't even do this?

Especially when so much rested on him to do the 'right thing' (and when, he wondered, had rightness begun to take on quotation marks in his mind?) . . . he steeled himself, forced his nervousness and the overwhelming feeling of betrayal of friend, teacher, and surrogate uncle away. " _Avada Kedavra._ "

* * *

As the days passed with no overt retribution from Dumbledore, Severus' nerves-and thus, regrettably, his temper-were becoming more and more hair-trigger. Thus, when the door to the room opened (and, it being nowhere near time for any of his classes to start, there being no real reason for said door to open), he congratulated himself for refraining from hexing the first person to come through the door.

And how convenient-it, or more exactly, she was a Gryffindor. "Go." He contented himself with growling.

The Gryffindor quailed, he was pleased to note, but did not turn around and flee, as had been his aim. Instead, she continued further into the room, revealing perhaps the reason for her courage-two companions.

"Patil. Chang. What is the meaning of this? Parkinson-you should not be here in the first place. Leave here, the three of you." In order to combat the greater numbers, he stood, bending one of his fiercer glares upon them.

The door closed with disturbing finality, and he noticed that Parvati had shifted such that she had it covered-with a sense of pride, maybe, that she had absorbed more of the lessons in Survival than he might have previously thought, but also of exasperation, that these lessons were now being used against him.

"Where is Draco, Professor Snape?" Pansy stepped forward, determination turning her eyes the shade of steel.

"Is he safe?" Cho added in much the same tone. "And Harry . . . does he know anything about Harry's disappearance?"

"Do _you_ know anything about Harry's disappearance?" Parvati chimed in from her place near the door.

"Leave." The situation felt like it was spiraling rapidly out of control-a feeling Snape had _never_ enjoyed.

"Not until you give us some answers." As one, the three girls folded their arms across their chests, staring defiantly.

"If Draco is in trouble, I want . . . no, I _need_ to help him." Pansy continued, slightly more softly. "He's always been there for me, and now . . ."

"I think I know where Harry went, but I don't know for sure. And I couldn't bear it if something happened to her simply because I miscalculated . . . Cho says that Malfoy probably knows something about Harry's disappearance, and I trust her judgment. I need to know."

"Both Harrys have been my friends, and even Draco I enjoy the company of, even though I don't know him as well as I do even either of the Harrys. I don't want anything to happen to any of them . . . not if I can stop it." Cho finished. "Please, Professor Snape . . ."

Their pathetic emotional appeals actually managed to touch him-and when exactly had he managed to pick up a heart? He had thought that vestigial organ gone for good-but _damned_ if he was going to let the three girls in on that secret.

He raised his glare a notch or two, adding a bit more stone as well. "I fail to see why this is any of my concern."

Pansy gave him the disconcerting impression of matching his glare notch for notch. "Because," she smiled sweetly, (a true Slytherin, that girl . . .) "if you had no idea what happened to Draco, you'd be nearly as frantic as me-if not more so. The fact that you aren't seems to indicate that you know exactly what's going on."

"And we want in." Parvati was definitely showing signs of the impetuosity that made her a Gryffindor.

Pansy, at least, had the sense to look briefly exasperated at the interruption but, to his surprise, just shrugged it off with a sigh and an amusement-tinged "What she said."

All right. For whatever reason, nonverbal scare tactics seemed to be failing miserably. Perhaps they had built up an immunity . . . now that was a depressing thought. So he was forced to move on to verbal-feeding them just a bit of truth (and that bit only because his conscience-bloody useless thing, that; never got him into anything but trouble-would not allow him to totally lie to these well-meaning girls. People with Draco's best interests at heart seemed to be becoming fewer and further between these days) in a way that would leave them with entirely the wrong impression.

"Malfoy is currently in hiding." He noted after a long pause. Seemingly idly, he added, "From Professor Dumbledore."

"So?" Odd enough that any of the three had voiced such a sentiment-he had thought even Pansy respected Dumbledore's power and status enough to pay heed to his opinion-far odder still that it had been the Gryffindor that spoke.

"So?" He repeated incredulously. "That's all you have to say?"

Parvati stepped forward. "Look, _Professor_ Snape. Unlike Parkinson and Cho, I could really care less about Malfoy. But Cho seems to think that he can tell me something about Harry's whereabouts" a brief shuttered look "or, more importantly, her well-being. So as long as he is capable of telling me that information, I really couldn't care less whether he's a perfect little angel, the brat he's always been, or some sort of deranged murderer and rapist."

"No, that would be his father." Pansy muttered.

_That_ managed to startle a laugh out of all three girls and, surprisingly enough, Snape himself (though it was more of a swiftly cut-off chuckle. Snarky, greasy ex-Death Eater bastards don't _do_ laughter).

Still smiling slightly, though more because of the reaction she had provoked than out of any residual humour at the comment itself, Pansy continued in a more serious vein, "So what does the Headmaster think Draco's done?"

"Kidnap Harry?" Cho suggested sarcastically. Severus was pleased to note that, apparent distaste for Draco aside, even Parvati snorted disbelievingly at that idea.

Ostensibly looking down at his watch, he tapped it three times. Returning his attention to the three girls standing in front of him, waiting for an answer, he smirked. "That, I'm afraid, is not my secret to tell."

And vanished.

* * *

Nothing happened.

Relief crashed down upon Blaise with a weight so near physical that he swayed on his feet.

Voldemort, on the other hand, turned on Snape, an angry flush suffusing his face (quite an accomplishment, as it was the first indication Blaise had seen that the man could turn any color but his 'natural' pasty white). "So, to top off your betrayal, you brought me a _Squib_?" He hissed.

Snape rolled his eyes-it was obvious, even before he stood (somewhat shakily, most likely as an aftereffect of the knee that Voldemort had injured), that he had given up all hope of getting out of this situation alive and was determined to enjoy his last few minutes engaging in that activity he loved best, perhaps, of all-wordplay. "Oh, sure, brilliant plan." He began, sarcasm dripping. "I'd have been discovered and branded as a traitor even more quickly than this-even had you not already known."

He straightened. "I was a _spy_ , Voldemort. You do remember what that term means, do you not? I would never have done something to so _obviously_ give away my true allegiance."

"It is true, even as a double agent, you were still one of my best followers . . ." Voldemort mused.

"With brilliant men like Crabbe and Goyle in your Inner Circle, it wasn't precisely hard." Snape riposted contemptuously.

Voldemort raised an-how odd, that really was an eyebrow. Somehow Blaise had been of the opinion that the monster was completely hairless. "They have their uses." He returned calmly. "Pure physical strength can be . . . useful, at times. Especially when the possessors of it have very small minds-they are so much easier to convince to do as you wish that way, after all."

Snape considered this. "True. Still, there's a Muggle saying for that sort of mentality-'Garbage in, garbage out'. If you don't order them exactly correctly, they may go off and do something entirely different."

"That's what I keep men like Lucius and Wormtail around for. They can think, but are generally well-enough trained not to do so in my presence."

Snape shook his head. "And this is why you'll lose in the end, Voldemort, you know? Dumbledore may not care for the opinions of all his followers, but he at least pretends he does-and occasionally, one of those disregarded underlings comes up with something useful."

"You were never a disregarded underling, Severus. You thought in my presence, and gifted me with those thoughts, and I listened." There was . . . Blaise could have sworn that Voldemort looked . . . sad, almost. Regretful. It was an odd moment, seeing Voldemort as something nearing human for the first time, when he almost found it in himself to . . . sympathize? . . . with the monster. "Why did you turn? I've suspected you had for more than four years now . . . but I've always wanted to know why."

"The question, I think, is more why I was foolish enough to go over to your side in the first place. I am-I was not really the Death Eating sort. I didn't want the sort of power you provide, I've never particularly enjoyed torturing anyone" a brief smile flitted across his face "except perhaps the Marauders. I don't believe any of that pureblood crap-hell, I fell in love with and _married_ a 'mudblood'."

"I think you knew a part of that-you never tried to require me to participate in any of the bloodier aspects of being under your rule; perhaps you realized that doing that would have simply lost me that much sooner. But I still knew it was happening, knew the suggestions I gave and the potions I brewed were resulting in peoples' deaths, somewhere. I managed to hide from that knowledge for a time . . . quite a while, to tell the truth. But I have a conscience; eventually I had to do the right thing, not simply the expedient one . . . I would not have been able to live with myself otherwise."

"So you grew quiet . . . for weeks, you no longer offered suggestions, even when I solicited them . . . just brewed your potions and watched me with those keen, thoughtful eyes of yours . . . that long ago, Severus? You hid yourself from me for that long?"

Snape smiled slightly. "You fail to remember, sometimes, that you are not the only Slytherin among your followers. You may have his blood flowing through your veins, but even that is no guarantee."

Blaise backed up, slowly, quietly, until he was at least partly hidden by the surrounding trees. It was creeping him out, how Snape had gone from his cutting, sarcastic best to what he could only describe as a heart-to-heart with a man he had been sure Severus had hated more than anyone else on Earth. He most certainly did not want to be around when the confrontation erupted back into violence.

He may not have been a Squib, but that did not mean that he was any more interested in getting between two _adult_ wizards that were almost certainly quite a bit more powerful than him.

Scarily-especially considering what the expression did to his face-Voldemort smiled back, just as slightly. "I'll take that under consideration."

"I'm afraid you won't get the chance." An entirely new voice, as a fourth person stepped into the clearing.

"You!" All three chorused.

Snape and Voldemort exchanged odd looks. "You know him?"

The stranger smirked. "Hi, Tom. Miss me?"

"Harry Potter. I had wondered what happened when you disappeared."

Had they bothered to look in each others' direction, Blaise and Severus would have seen that they each wore identical looks of puzzlement. Harry _Potter_?

"And I'm sure you hoped I died. Tough luck." The boy was still smirking. "I've come for you at last, Tom."

The snake-faced man laughed, long and hard. "Ah, but I will triumph, for your father, James Potter, is dead!"

The boy crossed his arms. "And when did I ever say that a Potter was my _biological_ father?" He raised an eyebrow. "All James Potter's death did, in retrospect, was piss me off at you even further."

"You're bluffing."

The stranger huffed. " _Honestly_. Do I _look_ like a Potter to you?"

Voldemort suddenly smirked. "Well, I don't know. You certainly look like a fool . . . and aren't the two terms synonymous?"

"Ouch. My pride is hurt. I will now rush you in a blinding rage like some fool Gryffindor." The black-haired boy deadpanned. "Now really . . . pissing someone off properly isn't _that_ hard . . ." he paused "Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle~."

"Stop that!" Voldemort shrieked.

"How does it feel to be advocating the extermination of all Muggles when you're only a half-blood yourself?" He taunted.

"Shut up!"

He buffed his nails against simple black robes. "See? Not so hard at all."

" _Avada Kedavra!_ "

As Blaise and Snape watched on in mute, horrified fascination, the green light rushed towards the stranger, who seemed oddly accepting of his fate. Suddenly he sprang into motion, though, an oddly shaped silver dagger appearing in his hand. As the curse wrapped itself around the dagger instead of killing the boy, he shook his head. "Now, _that_ was uncalled for. Really, Tom, has it been so long that you've forgotten already?"

With a flash, the curse was thrown off the dagger in a whiplike motion, and sent heading straight back towards its originator.

"Really, Harry," Voldemort mimicked as he raised a dagger of his own, "this is the second time you've pulled that trick on me. Don't you think I've learned a few things of my own by now?"

The green light, however, was not sent shooting back towards Harry . . . but straight towards Snape.

Blaise could tell the moment the stranger realized the change had been made; his eyes opened impossibly wide and he lurched in Snape's direction, anguish contorting his face. "Noo!"

"Yees." Voldemort mocked. "Excuse me for taking my attention from you for a moment, Mr. Potter-that was just a bit of unfinished business I had to take care of."

It would have been obvious that Voldemort had now gained the upper hand in their battle of wits, had Blaise been thinking of such things instead of . . . staring.

It was un-Slytherin behaviour. Blaise knew that somewhere deep back in his mind. He also knew he really couldn't care less. He had been only barely able to stomach the idea of killing Severus in the abstract . . . the reality was too much. Far too much.

"Unfinished business?" It would have been less unsettling had he shrieked the way Voldemort did. Instead, though there was no doubt that he was burning with a cold fury, his voice was even, cool, and entirely too quiet. There were hints of Severus in that cold control, but even Severus flew into rages quite often once he was provoked to true anger. "Is that all he was to you, Riddle?"

The dagger pointed straight in his direction. "No wonder then, that you will eventually lose. Not just because I will kill you-though don't doubt that I will. No, your sort will always lose because you don't care. You don't even pretend you care. Never underestimate the power of love."

"What is this? Some cutesy little cartoon?" Voldemort sneered. "And I suppose you expect this all to end with a happily ever after?"

Harry was poised. "No, you've destroyed far too much of my life for that, Tom. But any life without you in it will be happily enough ever after for me."

"The feeling is decidedly mutual." Voldemort bared his teeth in a clear parody of a grin.

Still with that coldly furious expression on his face, dagger extended, Harry began arrowing towards Voldemort; the absolute focus displayed made it clear that that was the only thing left in his mind.

" _Avada-_ "

Almost there . . .

" _-Kedavra!_ "

Blaise was, if possible, in the best position to observe the situation possible. Just as the stranger came within arm's reach of the Dark Lord, he finished the curse; the trademark green light burst over them both far brighter than it had before. When his eyes cleared, the Slytherin observed a scene that, for a moment, seemed frozen outside of time.

The dagger had done its duty, driving up under the ribcage and straight into Voldemort's heart; the curse had seemingly done its job just as well. Both looked oddly . . . surprised, in that moment before the blood erupted and they both fell.

Silence.

Shakily, Blaise pushed himself to his feet from the collapsed sitting position he had fallen into as he watched his mentor die and walked over to where the two lay. Moving as if in a dream, he plucked the dagger from the strange boy's hand. For a moment, he could have sworn he had seen something move . . . but when he looked, it was only a carved snake; certainly nothing likely to move there. Even in a world where magic is real, there are generally limits.

Still feeling an unreal quality to the situation, he looked down at Voldemort. It was obvious that the man was almost certainly already dead. Holding the dagger firmly, he drew a delicate line across the monster's throat and watched with something approaching satisfaction as blood began to pour from there as well. "Take that, you bastard." He whispered.

Placing the dagger back beside the body of the strange boy-the boy who had somehow known what was going to happen; if only they had listened . . . he walked on unsteady feet over to where Snape lay dead, fell to his knees, and began to weep.

Behind him, a single finger twitched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6 September 2003

**Author's Note:**

> Well?
> 
> On a side note, I'm taking ideas on pairings. You can register votes for both Harry and other-Harry; I would rather that the two of them were not put together. *makes face* That would be rather like the ultimate incest.
> 
> And yes, other-Harry does get a name of her own. But identifying her as a Malfoy straight off would rather have ruined the surprise, don't you think?
> 
> Do you think she counts as an original character? If so, she belongs to me.
> 
> . . . yeah, I didn't think so either. Bummer.


End file.
